


Lady Hawk

by WackyGoofball



Series: The Shredding Project: Fairytales Retold [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ... there is a tag for this? Consider me impressed., Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ladyhawke Fusion, Angst, Angst and Feels, Animal Transformation, Dark Magic, Drama & Romance, F/M, Friendship/Love, Guilt, Idiots in Love, Love, Love Confessions, Romance, So many tags, Spells & Enchantments, THOUGH IS IT???, Unrequited Love, cue for dramatic background music, hence the warning: ooc-ness may ensue with those, secondary characters are made to fit into the motivational background, such idiots...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-28 23:32:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 210,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13282212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WackyGoofball/pseuds/WackyGoofball
Summary: Arry, called "Mouse," wants nothing but escape from the black cells of King's Landing to chase the legacy of the mentor from Braavos.Arry finds a secret passageway through the sewers, to get away from the city that meant the child so much harm over the years, a city that was thrown into a turmoil ever since the "Two Pillars" of the Crown and the Faith, of Queen Cersei Lannister and the High Septon by name of High Sparrow, took control over the city and the Seven Kingdoms. High taxes, starvation, and a Faith Militant declaring every person not abiding the laws a sinner in front of Crown and the Seven are all but few problems the reign has caused.Yet, Arry doesn't get far, since Lord Commander Meryn Trant is right after the child. Until a mysterious man with a hawk arrives outside the city, wielding a Valyrian steel sword with a lion for the pommel to fend off the Queensguard.And so, Arry gets caught up in the man's and the hawk's affairs, soon realizing that their story is a tragic one, of two people being torn apart because of jealousy and religious hysteria. And while the child wanted nothing but find a new home, Arry finds a more urgent purpose - to help "Lady Hawk" and the snarky knight.





	1. The Mouse, the Knight, and the Hawk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NicoleCollard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicoleCollard/gifts).



> Hello everyone, thanks for looking into this story!
> 
> Yet again, I filed this under the "Shredding Project" - while the film _Ladyhawe_ (1985) is no actual fairytale, I believe its plot well fits the classical fairytale in many regards, which is why this is part of the shredding now.
> 
> I stuck to some many upbeats of the story, but others I changed... a lot. Similarly, I have taken up on some of the GoT canon points, but have twisted them for my own purposes. I would ask you not to pay too close attention to the timeframe here, since we are deeply in AU material, where things do get kind of murky after some time. With that also comes what I warn about in the tags, some secondary characters need to be motivated in a certain way that may not neatly map with canon, hence, be mindful of the AU tag! :D 
> 
> And one other thing - we start out from another character's POV, whereby I stick to the structure of the movie. But fret not, JB definitely is the major thing here, consider this chapter what it is - an introduction into the deep depths of the shredding. ;) 
> 
> Warnings go as always: I am still no native, and I roll around without a beta. How daring of me.
> 
> I gift this to NicoleCollard, who's an awesome, encouraging ,and kind person and a joy to chat with. And if I am not mistaken, you may like this shredding. 
> 
> I hope you are going to enjoy this!
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

 

 _“Oh, I'm a maid, and I'm pure and fair!_  
I'll never dance with a hairy bear!  
A bear! A bear!  
I'll never dance with a hairy bear!

 _The bear, the bear!_  
Lifted her high into the air!  
The bear! The bear!

 _I called for a knight, but you're a bear!_  
A bear, a bear!  
All black and brown and covered with hair

 _She kicked and wailed, the maid so fair,_  
But he licked the honey from her hair.  
Her hair! Her hair!  
He licked the honey from her hair!

 _Then she sighed and squealed and kicked the air!_  
My bear! She sang. My bear so fair!  
And off they went, from here to there,  
The bear, the bear, and the maiden fair.”

 

“Would you just shut up?!”

“Would _you_? I can damn well sing that song as often as I like,” the man who just sang out of tune retorts angrily, knocking against the stone wall standing between him and his younger critic.

“That song is stupid – and you sing like a cat shrieks when you step on its tail!” the vocal critic laments.  

“You are just too young to understand what the song’s actually about, Mouse. Lads like ye have not yet tasted honey of _that_ kind,” the man laughs throatily. “Because it’s hard to harvest, ye know? Right between a maid’s legs, haha!”

“My name is not Mouse,” the dark-haired child whispers, glancing about the tiny cellar into which the goldcloaks had it thrown days ago, though there is no certainty to tell just how much time has passed, because there is no daylight shining in the black cells of King’s Landing, blurring the lines, blurring the times.

“What was that?” the older man asks, not having understood.

“I said you are disgusting,” Mouse calls out.  

“Oh, did I upset you with speakin’ about ‘em _naughty_ bits of those songs? Can’t learn those lessons soon enough, lad. If you want to have any chance with’em ladies, you should think about how to get ye some honey rather sooner than later. The girls want ye to be good at that sort of harvest, I’m tellin’ ye.”

“I don’t want to have a _chance with the ladies_ , you nasty bastard,” the child grunts, leaning its head against the iron bars of the black cell.

“What? So ye are a pillow biter? Who could’ve guessed? Our little thief likin’ it from behind, hm? But ye know, if ye are not into getting’ yo’self no honey, you can still milk some man’s cock if that makes ye happy. But that, too, needs skill. And bawdy songs are a first taste of that,” the man snorts, only to cough, unable to contain his own laughter, almost choking on it.

_If only he did…_

“Arry, not Mouse. Arry. The name is _Arry_ ,” Arry repeats through gritted teeth, knocking against the iron bars over and over. “Just _why_ did they have to lock me up next to you treacherous lech?”

“Coz ye and I committed the same crime, easy as that,” the man chuckles.

 _And all that because of one bloody loaf of bread_ , Arry thinks in frustration.

One loaf of bread, and the goldcloaks caught the young thief in the act and dragged the child straight to the back cells, no judge, no magistrate, because the guard had seen the loaf in the child’s hand, so there was no need for a trial, however small, however unimportant. Arry didn’t even get to eat the bread, but instead now feeds on stale crumbs and water that tastes like they got it straight out of the sewers.

It shouldn’t be like this, Arry knows, but there is no way of helping it anymore. Steps were taken, bridges were burned, and now, Arry has no choice but to live with the decisions made, even if that means risking being caught in the act of stealing a loaf of bread to fend off the hunger, regardless of the obvious danger that comes with.

There may have been an easier time for the thieves to thrive, but ever since Queen Cersei has the city in her clutches, alongside the rest of the realm, stealing bread is an art form instead of something even the dumb people once succeeded in with little trouble.

However, that is what happens when taxes keep rising, carving out the purses and lands, the cooking pots and ovens, until nothing remains of them. The levies are so high as of late that it has the common man wondering whether the Queen intends to simply seat herself on all the food that keeps getting carried to the capitol to pay the taxes instead of planting her ass on the Iron Throne.

_Perhaps the good Queen was just in dire need for a comfy pillow for her royal buttocks._

Normally, Arry would not want to come anywhere near the city, which has cost the young thief everything of value, everything that once mattered, mattered the world – and more. That is what happens when you make decisions, of the kind you can no longer undo, that is when you make choices, and the wrong ones while at it. Because suddenly, you stand at the front of a gate to a city not your home, a city you link nothing but misfortune with, nothing but sadness, nothing but pain. And yet, it is the one city where there is food to steal, food to eat. And that drives even the most desperate thief back into the lion’s den.

Arry wanted to get away from this wretched city after all that happened, away from its inhabitants, its royals and soldiers, and its hateful preachers. Because the preachers don’t hold any comfort for the small man, far from it. They proclaim that everything in the world is sin. And the good Queen only ever adds to the wretchedness, the rottenness of the city, since she might be the one to succeed to the honor of her pre-predecessor, Mad King Aerys Targaryen, backing up the Faith in its ongoing terror sweeping through King’s Landing’s roads and narrow passageways. Yet, in the end, Arry can’t seem to escape, no matter the effort, no matter the sacrifice. And so, the young thief rather takes the risk of being imprisoned for stealing than to go to where there is no food, no home, no nothing for the likes of the young thief with dark hair and dark eyes.

However, Arry doesn’t try to waste much of a thought on it, the pain of the choice once made in a rush still throbbing in the young body as though it happened just yesterday, blurring past and present, leaving nothing but a mush of regret at the bottom of a _bowl o’ brown_ frequently handed to them as “food.”

 _“A bear there was, a bear, a bear!_  
all black and brown, and covered with hair.  
The bear! The bear!

 _Oh come they said, oh come to the fair!_  
The fair? Said he, but I'm a bear!  
All black and brown, and covered with hair!”

“JUST STOP ALREADY!” Arry cries out as the man wants to start with the next verse. “You can’t just start over with the same damned song all over again! My ears are _bleeding_!”

“And mine are bleedin’ from your constant complainin’, lad. Ye might be young, but ye are old enough to be charged for the same crimes as I was, so stop whinin’ and take it like a man,” the man retorts. “No matter whether ye are into suckin’em cocks or not. Just take it like a man and deal with it, and leave me bloody well to my fuckin’ songs, Seven Hells.”

“In my experience, men would do better taking things like women,” Arry argues with narrowed eyes, though the older man can’t see that, of course.  

“Haha, who made you think such nonsense?” the older man scoffs.

“A woman must be truly brave to take up with you, that’s how I know,” Arry answers. “I just imagine the horror of you on top of… no, I don’t want to imagine that!”

Arry knows by now that the only way to respond to those kinds of men is by returning the favor in kind. While Arry never feared to speak from the top of the head, not minding the consequences, it was on the streets that the young thief learned to talk like an old, nasty man.

It’s another kind of shield, another kind of armor, that comes without metal, without leather straps, and chainmail, but nonetheless, it can keep you out of harm’s way – and sometimes, get you right into it.

“Ye can count yourself lucky that I’m stuck in my own cellar, or else…,” the man on the other side snarls, but Arry interrupts him before he can finish the threat, “Or _what_? You would hit me? I am too fast for you to even take a swing at me.”

“Don’t stretch your luck, boy. There’s always a time after prison, Mouse,” the man grumbles. Arry can hear him kick something away, probably his wooden bowl, to let out a bit of his frustration.

“Not for all,” Arry comments with a grimace.

No, some spend the rest of their days in one of those black cells to rot away in. And people get such sentence for lesser and lesser charges, at least in Arry’s opinion. Though that may well be because Arry has no faith in the Seven, because it is these laws the High Sparrow preaches and that his Faith Militant and the goldcloaks enforce, showing no mercy in the execution.

“No, but for the likes of us? They can’t _afford_ to hold us forever. Think about it, Mouse! We cost’em solid coin, and isn’t that sweet? In a strange way, the Queen herself’s payin’ for my bed, for the roof over my head, may it dribble with water all it wants, for the stale bread I eat… she’s payin’ for it. It’s as though Your Grace accidentally invited a beggar the likes of me to her own royal table,” the older man laughs almost giddily at the thought.

“Just that she’d never have you anywhere near her royal table,” Arry snorts.

“Neither would she have ye,” the older man points out.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” the child argues. “I am quite… sneaky.”

“Be sneaky all ye want, Mouse. The likes of us? This is the lives we live. Either imprisoned in the city, or locked up in the black cells for whatever they find wrong with us. It’s what we were born for, and it’s how we are goin’ to die. We only have… stale bread, prison cells, and… bawdy songs.”

“Just that I am not like you…,” Arry mutters.

“What was that again, Mouse?” the man calls out, not having caught that.

“The name’s still Arry,” the child calls out instead.

“And I still don’t care.”

Arry clutches at the brown curls as the man starts off with _Six Maids in a Pool_.

Not that this is something out of the usual, though. That has been Arry’s daily routine almost immediately after being tossed into the cellar. And perhaps, if Arry was not concerned with other things, there would be pity for a man who has nothing but bawdy songs and naughty comments to hold on to in the prison, because he has the rights of it, the life of the small man holds little comfort, and much danger, especially in times such as these.

However, the thief called Mouse has better to do, has much more urgent business to attend, than tend to the likes of the man locked up in the other cell, singing out of tune. And that is why Arry endures, simply endures, waits for chances to arrive.

Patience is key when it comes these matters.

Being sneaky is an art form like stealing bread grew to be one. Yet, in order to be sneaky, you have to master the arts of observation first. A patient observer is what it takes to achieve the impossible, and Arry is set on making a small miracle happen once chance arises.

Arry keeps pacing up and down the small cell, counting over and over again the steps that it takes to carry from one corner to the other.

_One, two, three, four, five, turn. One, two, three, four, five, turn. One, two, three…_

Arry carries on with measuring the cell with small steps, over and over again, until silence starts to fall upon the prison cells as the inmates grow weary of their own condition, go to rest, dream away to better times, the former days, or those lying in a distant future that looks more promising than what the present holds. Soon, there is nothing but the steady rhythm of the guttering of the torches set up by each pillar leading down the dark corridors and the snoring of the other inmates carrying over wet, black stone to create a cacophony that just keeps repeating itself each night in a new, even worse shape as more and more voices keep adding up in their sleep.

And so, Arry sets to the task to make miracles happen.

Having used time wisely for the arts of observation, the young thief knows at what interval the guards patrol their block, which is why Arry knows it’s safe to go for the little secret now. Measuring the steps, Mouse starts from the corner right by the iron bars three steps ahead and four to the right. Thus, even in the darkness, the loose stone is located with ease. Arry lifts the loose stone up as silently as possible before grabbing into the hole until the small fingers curl around a piece of wood, which once was a spoon the guards hand them for the _bowl o’ brown_ they give them to force down their throats. Arry pretended to have lost it, and when the guard could not find the spoon either, Arry was given a new one for each meal, because they are not supposed to keep anything, safe for the bowls from which no weapons can be created without anyone hearing of it at some point.

But a spoon, quite on the contrary, that is a malleable object that just _waits_ to be _bent_ into the right shape, or rather, carved.

Rubbing it over the rough stone over and over, silently as a cat, it starts to take another shape – the one shape that is needed. All you need to do is to scrub it against the ground, against a nick in the stone, whatever it is. All it takes is a sharp edge. It took Arry a lot of effort, working on the spoon without relent whenever the guards could not see, but at last, the wooden object has the right shape. Arry can feel it when brushing short fingers across it.

_Tonight is the night._

Arry steps over to the iron bars, glancing around to see if someone is there, but the guards are still in the other block, which is a fortune. The young thief’s thin arm fits well through the iron bars, which gives the young child little trouble to get the tool to work on the lock on the other side, even though it proves rather difficult to keep the carved spoon in the right place and turn in the right direction since everything is in reverse, but Arry knows that now that it began, there is just one way, and it is ahead.

After agonizing moments of turning the spoon in the lock, the object of heavy metal finally springs open and for a moment, Arry wants to believe that this is a success, but then thinks better of it – because this was only the beginning, the young thief knows. Thus, as quietly as Arry’s feet allow, the dark-haired child steals down the currently empty hallway leading down the rows of sleeping prisoners. Arry knows that there is no escape to be achieved by the front gates. It is heavily guarded and has a steady post that all of whom managed to get out of their cells ran into when they tried to sneak outside. The child has seen all of that before, has carefully observed, and learned from the mistakes made by others, which is why Arry heads the opposite direction, down the lion’s throat instead of getting torn apart by the back of its teeth.

They say the black cells are inescapable, but a wise man Arry knew once said that there is a way past any person’s defenses, you just have to find the spot and attack without relent, without mercy. You just have to see. That is important. You have to see, see!

Arry stops upon the sound of men talking nearby, their footsteps coming closer and closer. Mouse holds its breath and stands still behind one of the pillars, hoping that the men will just walk past.

_Just go on. There is nothing to see. Nothing to see. Just walk on. Walk on…_

And thankfully, they head the other direction, away from the child hidden in the shadows. Arry lets a silent sigh of relief before continuing down the dark hallways, trying to spot an exit, a way out.

And that is when Arry’s gaze wanders to the ground upon the sound of water rushing.

_The drains._

Arry quickly bends down to remove the metal top from the drain. A tall person would never fit through, but someone of Arry’s stature can crawl down, even if with a bit of a struggle. The young thief falls to the ground below, splashing into the water of the drain, ignoring the stench.

Freedom rarely smells sweet, it appears.

And so, Mouse continues down the drains, the sewers, crawls over objects, past rats and mice, and pushes past parts of the sewers only ever closed with the aid of some nails and a wooden planks hammered across the round entrance gates.

For a moment, Arry wonders why they bothered blocking those passages, _as though anyone would come down here purposely_ , if not for a young thief trying to escape the inescapable prison cells above. However, Arry leaves the thought aside rather quickly, reckoning that there is a time to ponder those matters, but not now.

The escape is more important than some barred passageways no one has likely seen in hundreds of years.

After a quest through the drains, going back and forth, crawling in circles over moss, and things Arry doesn’t even want to know what they may have been, not seeing a single thing with the eyes, having nothing but fingers and feet to use for guidance, the young thief called Mouse comes to stand in front of a drain that is filled to the rim, broad enough for the child to fit through. Yet, that is not what grabs Arry’s attention. It’s the faint sheen in the water that can only come from light hitting it on the other side.

Knowing that there is just the way ahead, Arry climbs into the drain, sucks in a deep breath, and then dives down, crawling along the drain that keeps twisting. The child’s lungs already ache for air and young Mouse’s eyes grow dimmer, just like the arms and legs grow weaker.

 _What if I die here?_ Arry thinks for a moment, cold dread clutching at the child. _What if I die here and my family…?_

The thought leaves the young thief as there is a white flash of light, and with the light comes air to breathe, a life to live. Arry gasps, sputters up the stagnant water wanting to get out. For a moment, Mouse can’t see a single thing, is blinded by the white light above, but after some blinking, contours become visible, then colors, then clearer outlines, shapes, until, at last, Arry can make out buildings, familiar buildings. People passing by above, going about their usual business, unaware to what just jumped out of the drains leading to the black cells.

The child glances down, then up again, realizing that this drain is right by the Great Sept of Baelor! And if Arry were to swim a little further to the other end of the sewer, there seems to be another drain connecting the black cells with the sept. The young thief frowns – that was no news ever shared by anyone Arry got to know, and Arry spend many days and nights in the company of men and women who knew the city like the back of their hands. However, there was never any mention of drains connecting the black cells and the sept.

_And who knows, maybe there is even one going straight up to the Red Keep! Imagine that!_

Arry doesn’t waste too much time on the idea, though, because the rhythmic clattering of metal calls the young thief’s attention back to the present situation, which demands the arts of discretion and sneaking away, still. Arry swims to the edge of the drain, to where shadows do well to hide a short-grown child as the goldcloaks march along the sewers, demanding of people coming by to tell them whether they have seen “Mouse,” “a wretched boy with brown hair and brown eyes and a way too big mouth,” and what else they can come up with to describe the young thief best in their opinion. That only makes Arry ever the more that staying in the city is no longer a viable option.

_Though perhaps that is what fortune is trying to tell me. Maybe I was meant to escape to escape this city… maybe it’s time for a new journey!_

Once the goldcloaks are out of sight, Arry gathers the last strengths remaining to climb the wall, stone for stone, careful not to slip thanks to the wet fingers, but Arry knows well how to balance, an art taught in what feels like a small eternity ago.

At last, Arry can glide over the edge, lying flat on the stomach, breathing hard. Mouse would like to take a rest, but there is no time for that. The goldcloaks are looking for the “wretched boy” and they will turn every stone upside-down to find “Mouse” who has given them so much trouble over time.

Thankfully, a huge crowd has gathered by the steps leading up to the Great Sept of Baelor. The guards would be fools to wade through the masses of people in search for a small child with not very particular features, Arry is aware. Thus, doing what they should not do is _exactly_ what the young thief should be doing. And so, Arry starts to wade through the crowd, past women carrying baskets full of flowers or apples or breads, men with hay strapped to their backs, and children standing between their parents’ legs to ensure that they aren’t stepped upon.

There is always an uproar whenever the High Sparrow raises his voice to the people, even though one should think that a man wearing a plain woolen tunic and owning no shoes should not impose such fear and respect at the same time the way he does. And yet, people hang on every word the white-haired man shouts from the top of the stairs.

He used to be one of them, so perchance that is why. A man of the Faith who fed the poor and tended to the sick with the aid of his loyal followers. The High Sparrow is certainly more popular around here than the dear Queen is, but over the years, his tactics seem to have shifted. He started out as a man of benevolence, of charity, of the values of the Faith, the teachings of the Seven. He was a man who proclaimed that his being named High Septon would ensure that the small person’s voice would be heard at last, that they, the crowd, the people of King’s Landing, would finally find a voice to speak with to “shake on the pillars upon which the country has rested for far too long, not feeling the impact of the earthquake we all can set loose.”

However, that changed once he became one of the “Two Pillars,” as it was referred to when the Crown revived the Faith Militant from its slumber after it had been banished many, many years ago in the wake of the havoc those men and women spread across the lands. Suddenly, the High Sparrow’s speeches were less about the people, and more about the faith they were meant to follow.

It did not take long for people to stop believing their voices to be heard and instead come to the realization, slowly but surely, that they were meant to remain silent about other matters instead. What once was crime is now sin. And over time, both came to mean the same thing.

Seeing people being dragged through the city for having gambled with a friend once or twice is part of everyday life at the city now. Seeing women being paraded down the streets with septas ringing a bell behind them, chanting “shame” over and over, for merely being prostitutes, belongs as much to King’s Landing as the Red Keep does.

Thus, the High Sparrow is now a figure imposing both fear and, perhaps strangely so, _hope_ for people who came to believe that the world is sin, that they are all sinners, and that only the Faith, that only _he_ can show them the way out of their own damnation, away from the Seven Hells, to be off to the Seven Heavens in the afterlife.

And that is how he keeps in power alongside the Queen. She feeds off his power that the High Sparrow has with the people. Because they follow him out of fear that his sermons hold nothing but the truth. They follow him because they fear perhaps not even _him_ as much, rather, they fear the Faith Militant, his strong arm bearing no swords but clubs instead, but because they fear _damnation_. They fear being sinners. They fear being shunned by others if their sins were exposed. They fear that something dark rests within them and that the man who preaches from the top of the stairs is the only one holding the answers to rid them of the demons, of the sin.

Yet, Arry doesn’t want to meddle with the Faith, let alone politics. That was never the young child’s endeavor. It’s simply what you are bound to see, bound to hear, bound to witness, and you carry it with you wherever you go, so that, in the end, even if you walk past the gates of King’s Landing, a part of the wretched city lives on inside you, taunting you to return.

Arry turns around and stands for a moment as the High Septon opens his arms, yelling at the top of his voice to the people listening to him by the other end of the stairs.

 “The world is sin! We are sin! Sin lives in all of us, my brothers and sisters. And our one way to forgiveness is to repent, repent for the wretchedness of the world residing in every single one of us! Thus, let us stand together, let us keep watch over one another, so to expose the devils taking a hold of the good that lies in all of you alongside the bad wresting for control! So that we can ensure that we do not fall into the clutches of those wretched devils trying to take control over our weak flesh!”

Mouse grimaces, but then quickly carries on. The High Sparrow and his Faith Militant can stay right where they belong if someone were to ask the young thief. The Queen unleashed a dragon of its own kind by letting those men rise again, as the Faith Militant continues to tear down inns and brothels, rushes into people’s homes where a lad may lay with the girl of his choosing without having taken the vows, to parade them through the streets to expose them to the shame they say they committed, and all that in the name of the Queen.

However, Mouse knows better than to get involved in such a trouble. The thief’s trouble lies in escape, which is now the first thing to do, the one thing that matters, the one thing to see ahead. Thus, the choice seems rather straightforward to head for Flea Bottom, where no one can tell one thief from the other, to then make out of the city.

 

* * *

 

Inside the Red Keep, Queen Cersei Lannister sits on the Iron Throne, tapping her long index finger against the melted iron of the blades from which the chair was forged, her face stoic, stone-like almost, as she looks at those beneath her.

“Lord Commander. What brings you here?” she asks in a monotonous voice, her index finger relentlessly tapping against the melted swords.

“I am afraid I have bad news to deliver, Your Grace,” Meryn Trant admits, bowing his head even deeper this time.

“And what… would those bad news be, Lord Commander?” she asks slowly, taking her time to taste each of the words traveling past her lips.

“A prisoner escaped from our dungeons, Your Grace,” the soldier wearing the White admits, not daring to look up to the woman sitting on the Iron Throne.

“Is that so?” Cersei asks, tilting her head to the side slightly. “Because that seems rather curious to me. After all, the black cells are inescapable, you might recall.”

“And they are… I thought. I don’t know how the lad’s done it, Your Grace, but he must have slipped past my men somehow. For which, of course, they will be punished duly, I will see to that myself, but… but the lad is gone,” the Lord Commander answers.

“The lad?” she repeats slowly, almost painfully slowly. “A boy managed to escape the most able men you assigned to the task of keeping those treacherous criminals where they belong to rot for the crimes, the sins committed? You, my good Lord Commander, mean to tell me that you fail to keep imprisoned… a boy. Do I get that right?”

“A young thief, but yes,” Meryn Trant admits, licking his lips nervously. “He stole bread when we caught him in the act, only for the boy to start a fight with the goldcloaks once we brought him to the black cells for punishment. One he even bit in the leg.”

“Do I look like I care about that, Lord Commander?” the Queen asks, gesturing at herself. “You _do_ realize that I sit on the _Iron Throne_ , yes? That this means that I am the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Which, in turn, means that such issues are handled by my inferiors, by the likes of you, my loyal knights. And now you want to have me believe that it is _my_ duty to concern myself with the responsibility I gave into your hands, believing it no great burden to shoulder. You want me, the Queen, to handle your affairs of which you prove incapable. Do I get that right, Ser Meryn Trant?”

She leans forward in her seat slightly, which has the man standing at the bottom of the stairs take two steps back.

“I wouldn’t ever, Your Grace,” he says quickly. “I just meant to inform you of it.”

“But, frankly speaking, I do not care about that, Lord Commander. I just wish to know how comes that someone manages to achieve the impossible – and how you wish to counter that and make possible again for the statement to remain true that there is no escape from the punishment awaiting such thieves in the deepest depths of the black cells,” the Queen hisses.

“I have ordered my men to search the city. They are doing that as we speak, Your Grace. And I am sure that they will secure the boy, and once we have them, we will question him to learn how he escaped, so that this may never repeat itself again,” Ser Meryn answers hastily.

“And why are _you_ still here, then?” she asks.

“To report back to you,” he replies.

“Which you may just as well have assigned to a messenger. Instead, you are here, wasting my time and your watchful eye which you should better be used to find the boy who made the impossible happen. We cannot allow for rumors to spread that people can escape punishment. Thus, I want the boy found, but _discreetly_. I don’t want this rumor to catch flame, is that understood?” she demands.

Ser Meryn nods his head frantically. “Absolutely, Your Grace.”

“Good, then I hope for you that you will succeed rather sooner than later…,” she says, leaning back in the chair dozens of Queens and Kings sat on before her. “Or else it might be that you will have to see for yourself if the black cells are as inescapable as you promised me.”

Meryn Trant nods his head again, letting out a shuddered breath, then hurries away to the open gate, the white cloak hanging about his shoulders dragging after him, as though to haunt him.

Queen Cersei closes her eyes, blowing air through her nostrils, before reaching up to the crown she had manufactured for herself years ago, finding relief and calmness at the touch of the cold metal against the tips of her fingers.

Her eyes open again once she hears someone approach, though her features once she sees the Maester without chains and now Hand of the Queen, Qyburn, approach the Iron Throne with fast, smooth steps.

“Your Grace, you had me summoned?” he asks.

“Yes, I wanted a report on your _experiment_ ,” she answers. “I heard nothing of that in a while, though I gave you as much time as you needed to fully dedicate yourself to the cause. So? How far are we with it?”

“I ran some trouble in the third stage of the experiment, I am afraid, Your Grace,” the dark-haired man admits. “The test subject proved rather… resistant to my ministrations.”

“Resistant, you say? So… the experiment is failing, is that what you are trying to tell me?” she questions, narrowing her eyes at the older man.

“Oh, not at all, not all, Your Grace,” Qyburn assures her, stepping a little closer, a little higher up the stairs leading to the Iron Throne. “Set-backs in experiments of that measure are absolutely expected. And in fact, there is much to be gained from the knowledge that the test subject proves so resistant.”

“How would that be?” Cersei questions, curling her lips into a frown.

“Well, resistance means strength, it means vitality, Your Grace,” he answers. “And that is what it takes to enter the fourth and final stage of the test.”

“I will have to trust your word, then. And so I am to hope for your own sake that you will find a solution to the resistance in due time,” Cersei answers, looking at the gate through which Meryn disappeared moments ago. “I need an able Queensguard, and this one… doesn’t appear like it anymore. It seems that we are in desperate need for a kind of vitality, a new kind of life.”

“I will focus all of my efforts on achieving just that, Your Grace, you have my word for it,” Qyburn says, bowing his head.

“Of course you will,” Cersei agrees with a slight smile. “Because your Queen demanded it. And the Queen’s will is the will of the Gods. And what the Gods will… happens.”

 

* * *

 

 

Young Arry, meanwhile, has torn away from the crowd listening to the old preacher whose words proclaim only more sin to be in the world than there already are, and instead continued down Flea Bottom. The thief’s hope is to make past the Iron Gate, reckoning that the guards will keep inside the gates of the city. While they may have interest in catching a young child that managed to escape the inescapable black cells, it seems unlikely that they will dedicate so many guards to search the areas around King’s Landing, where someone the size of Arry can hide under any rock, behind any brush or on the top of whatever tree may grow high into the air.

 _Maybe I should just get a ship_ , the thief thinks, walking down secret passageways, feeling a flutter of the heart at the idea. _A small boat would do. And then… maybe just set sail across the Narrow Sea. To Braavos, maybe. I always wanted to see the Titan._

Mayhap it’s simply time for Arry to abandon this city once and for all. It meant no good all along, even less so since Cersei Lannister took the crown into her pale hands and put the metal ring on her head. Young Mouse has seen enough suffering and fear sweeping through the city ever since the woman took the throne to know that one thing for certain – Queen Cersei Lannister is a burden the people have to carry, no matter how close they are on the edge of collapsing under the weight.

It is because of preachers the likes of the High Sparrow and his Faith Militant enforcing the laws he yells, standing at the top of the stairs leading to the Great Sept of Baelor, that she is as powerful as she is in the city.

The High Sparrow makes them all afraid of being sinners, and having sinners amongst them, next to them, in their homes, their neighborhood, their own family. He makes them paranoid and frightened of themselves and each other, which seems to help keep the people restrained, tied down, when once he said he would unleash them, so that they now look up to the unjust Queen for guidance alongside him, for laws to keep them from their own salvation. Because Cersei Lannister upholds the Faith as one of the “Two Pillars” in every speech she gives, making it sound that following her laws is the same as living a life free of sin, and that, by implication, anyone not abiding the Queen’s laws is a sinner.  

Arry rounds another corner, letting a sigh of relief at the sight of the Iron Gate now finally within eye’s reach, but the thief has to run for cover at the very next moment once flashes of gold and white evade Mouse’s eyes as the goldcloaks and the men of the Queensguard, led by Meryn Trant march down the street, entering the houses, one by one, likely in search for the runner who somehow managed to escape an inescapable prison.

Looking around frantically, searching for a swift escape the likes to be found in the black cells, Arry finds none. The goldcloaks are encircling the young thief already, which means that there is no way of escape other than making a daring dash ahead.

_There is just one direction, and it is ahead – yet again._

And so, Arry pulls the hood up to cover the face likely to be recognized by the men and enters the main street, trying to walk on as casually as possible, so not to call attention to the young child making towards the Iron Gate.

_Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Quick as a snake. Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow…_

“Stop right there, you little bastard!” a voice calls out, and to Arry’s shock, has an iron-like grip not just on the thief’s mind but also the thin arm belonging to such.

The young child looks up, cold fear dribbling down its length alongside the beads from the water still soaking boots, tunic, breeches, and hood.

“Got you at last, boy,” the Lord Commander of the Queensguard snarls, tightening his grip, twisting the poor child’s arm even further to the point that Arry can’t help but cry out once. “And this time, you will get to rot in the black cells till only bones remain, after the mice and rats are finished with you.”

“You must mistake me for someone else, I am…,” Arry means to say, means to escape, but to no avail, as Ser Meryn gets right in the child’s face, his acidic breath making Arry dizzy.

“You think I am that easily fooled, boy?” Meryn hisses.

“No,” Arry answers slowly. “But I think you are rather easily distracted.”

“What now?” the older man snorts, but that is when Arry simply plops to the ground with the buttocks first, thereby slipping out of the hood onto which the Lord Commander held on.

After that, Arry knows truly just one direction, ahead. The little thief runs for dear life itself, no longer daring to look back, fearing for the guards close by to make good on Ser Meryn’s promise and have the child in a cellar even Arry with all cunning will no longer be able to slip away from.

Arry keeps running for the gate, slipping past women going about their daily business, crawling through one men’s parted legs, knocking pots and wooden buckets over as the gate comes closer and closer.

“Get the boy!” Meryn Trant keeps shouting.

Arry keeps running and running, until at last, there is a shadow above, and then bright light, just like that when emerged from the depths of the secret sewer system of the city of sin.

Inside the child’s mind, all sorts of ideas keep dancing fast about its head.

_I can start for the water, for the ocean. If I keep running before they catch up to me, I can hold my breath as long as I can to have them believe Mouse drowned for good. Let myself be drifted away in the current and get back ashore when they retreat. Or maybe I could make for Rosby road and hide on one of the carriages carrying hay to and fro the city. Or maybe…_

The young thief has to try hard not to cry out as arrows fly left and right and ahead, all around, while Arry makes across the Iron Gate. The child looks around, trying to spot a hiding place, some place to stay, some place to disappear in, a shadow, a crevice, a tree, a brush, but… there is no tree, there is no brush, just a plain field that ebbs into the blue of the ocean far out of Arry’s reach.

“Maybe I should have gone for the Dragon Gate after all,” the young child mutters, frantically looking around, all the while running as fast as the feet can carry it, because if Arry stops running know, that much is for certain, the black cells will be the child’s destiny indeed.

Arry watches in terror as the men clad in white and gold pour past the Iron Gate, looking like a metal flood meant to drown everyone and everything in its path, and foremost the runner they are meant to bring back to the city.

 _If only I had my sword_ , young Arry thinks bitterly. _I never should have abandoned it. It was the one gift that…_

Another arrow almost hitting the child square in the shoulder, if not for fast reflexes preventing that from happening, has Arry lose the thought and flit away into the cloudless sky above. The men are going to get what they came for, and if Mouse is just unfortunate enough, it may well be that Meryn Trant will not just be done throwing the young thief back into one of the black cells. Arry heard the stories about the Lord Commander of the Queensguard, one more terrible than the other.

Mouse swallows as the men start closing closer and closer and closer and closer…

The shriek of a bird calls Arry’s attention to the teal-colored sky above, where the young child can spot a majestic bird flying high in the air, big and with wings spreading wider than the young thief has ever seen it in a lifetime. At this distance, the bird almost looks like a blade that cuts across the sky.

Arry can do nothing much but stare as the winged animal dives, picking up speed as it comes closer and closer, but short before hitting the ground, takes a swift turn to fly at full speed now in the realm of the beasts of the earth – and with outstretched, sharp claws, cuts into the mass of gold and white, knocking two men off their feet from the sheer impact.

That is nothing Arry has ever seen before, the young thief will admit. A bird, a hawk to be more precise, of such strength and with such hatred for the Queensguard? No, that is a novelty, which is quite welcome, of course, considering that this may well be Arry’s last respite that came raining from the sky by some miraculous wink of fate. However, young Mouse does not get to linger with the bird that keeps scratching and pecking at the men in golden armor, trying to fend off the beast of the sky, but instead finds dark eyes locked on a man riding up on a white stallion, sending clouds of dust and sand to climb into the air.

For a moment, Arry feels reminded of children’s books and illustrations from home, where gallant knights came to the rescue of those in need, riding in on a mighty horse, wielding their magical swords with such valor that the Warrior himself would have had to bow his head in admiration.

As the man comes riding closer, Arry can only ever catch a glimpse of the rider clad in black leather and with a red belt strapped around his waist, but the hood over the man’s head obscures his identity entirely.  

 _Who is this man_? Arry thinks silently, eyes wide open to see it all, to remember everything.

The young thief watches with both fascination and shock as the man rides up to the horde of gold and white, to come to stand right between young Arry and the men meaning to capture the runner, in the same motion jumping off his horse, moving with a swiftness Arry only ever saw on the man whose memories are still close to heart and mind, but who is no longer within reach.

The rider pulls his sword from the sheath, a beautiful blade that seems almost white as the sunlight reflects on the smooth surface.

“Up, now!” Arry can hear the stranger yell, and to the child’s surprise, the majestic hawk takes flight right thereafter, retreating to the teal above their heads.

And then, the battle begins. High, low, high, low, upper cut, low cut, the man just comes raining upon these men like an unrelenting storm, using the sword like the extension of his own limb.

 _That man is good, more than good_ , Arry can’t help but note. _What a technique!_ _And what a **sword**!_

The blade cuts through the golden armors like a hot knife glides through butter. And yet, the stranger seems not interested in the kill, because he mostly just knocks the soldiers to the ground instead of taking their lives with a sword that could take them in a single heartbeat.

“Lay down your sword!” Trant curses. “This is a prisoner of the Crown! You are not to interfere!”

“And the Crown has taken the whole city as prisoner, which seems unjust in the eyes of Gods and Men,” the hooded man argues.

“Lay it down!” the Lord Commander repeats shrilly.

“I am afraid I can’t,” the cloaked man argues with a smirk tugging at his lips. “It was a gift.”

“Get him!” Ser Meryn yells, pushing the men of the Queensguard forward next.

“Then let’s see what your masters have taught you,” the cloaked stranger says, rotating the sword in his hand swiftly once, twice, and then charges the first knight approaching him, both hands tightly clutched to the fine blade the young Queensguard member comes to carry.

However, the young man stands no single chance against the hooded fighter, who moves as though he and the sword were one being. Arry has never seen anything quite like that ever since… _ever since…_

Eyes closing for a moment to contain the tears on the verge of falling, Arry tears them back open to see the hawk sinking back into the crowd of goldcloaks, as though the bird was another blade the stranger wields with a magical touch. There is a curious synchrony to the way the man and the beast move.

High, low, high, and high again.

_It almost seems like a dance._

“What did I say!?” the man calls out once in direction of the bird. “Stubborn thing you are! You never listen to what I tell you, do you?!"

The hawk shrieks at him in reply, as though to oppose him.

"Oh, the last word is not yet spoken on the matter! You just wait until this is dealt with!"

If possible, the bird only seems more aggravated at that, flapping its wings wildly, screeching ever the shriller.

However, the man's attention is soon drawn to the next opponent meaning to try his luck, though to no avail, as that man, too, soon tumbles to the ground, knocking his head hard enough to pass out from the impact as his own helmet sends him into the realm of dreams.

The next one comes charging then, another of the younger Queensguard members, those who have not yet spent half if not more of their lives in celibacy, once having kept the King’s, now keeping the Queen’s secrets, bond to a life without children or lands. However, this one seems better at the blade than the others before him proved to be, successfully blocking some of the blows the stranger hiding under the hood sends his way along with the hiss of the steel whenever their blades collide.

Arry, feet frozen, unable to move, simply watches as the men continue to sword dance, but the thief can clearly hear the exchange taking place as the soldier raises the sword against the man cloaked in black and red, suddenly stopping his movements in shock.

“Ser, Ser Jaime?!” the knight of the Queensguard asks upon seeing the mysterious man up-close, happiness and relief washing over him as he looks at the other man’s face. “It’s you? You have returned?”

“My brother…,” the dark-clad man means to say with a smile tugging at his lips, but that is when an arrow cuts through the air and solidly collides with the exposed neck of the young man of the Queensguard. The mysterious man’s eyes open wide as the young soldier’s blood spills to the ground, tainting the gold and painting it red. He catches the young man as he falls. And no one seems to deny him at that moment, because shock is evident on all soldiers’ faces, since the arrow came from one of their own – the Lord Commander of the Queensguard himself, who still holds the bow up from which the lethal arrow was fired – and took a life along.

“Ser, Ser…,” the young man stutters, blood running down the corners of his mouth.

“Speak not,” the dark-clad man tells him, holding on a little tighter. “It’s going to be alright. It’s going to be alright.”

“You came.”

“You haven’t died for nothing, rest assured, brother. You will be avenged, we all will be in due time,” the stranger mutters, gently rocking the knight as the color is drained out of him along with the red blood staining the sand. However, that is when the young man takes his last breath, the only noise being that of the blood still running down his opened throat.

An uproar goes through the ranks of soldiers who just bore witness to what their own leader carried out in cold blood, murmurs growing into whispers, and whispers into voices.

The hooded man gently lowers the fallen soldier to the ground, looking at the white cloak now soiled with the man’s own blood in disgust.

“Trant!” the stranger shouts at the top of his voice as he straightens back up, fury in his eyes, his entire being. “You are a dead man, you…”

However, that is when the bird from above starts to shriek shrilly. The stranger tears his gaze up, his hand still shaking, aching for blood, for the Lord Commander’s blood, but then he lets a shuddered breath, bends down, and picks up his sword.  

“You can consider it a fortune that I must be on my way,” he says in a low voice, nodding at the fallen man of the Queensguard on the ground. “But for _that_ you will repay. Just like for everything else. In due time, I am going to collect the debt. That is a promise. But for now… I will leave you to your own sin – and the judgment of your own brothers.”

He gives a curt nod to the soldiers, still standing there in utter shock, unmoving, unable to move, even.

“Get him!” the Lord Commander keeps shouting, but no one moves, no one can, even if they wanted. Because what they saw – they can no longer unsee. “Get him, I said! Get him!”

Anger rushing through him, Meryn Trant takes up the bow again, shakily balancing the arrow on his finger to take a shot at the stranger, but by that time, the white horse is already intercepting, and the hooded man swiftly swings himself on the horse’s back. He turns his horse and starts to ride away, Ser Meryn’s arrow landing nowhere near close the man, neither does the next, or the next, or the one thereafter.

Arry can do nothing much but stare at what just happened, the fallen soldier that merely said a name, the Lord Commander who killed one of his own men, and the mysterious man whose goal to help the thief is beyond anyone’s understanding.

However, Arry doesn’t get to ponder on these matters, as suddenly, the child is grabbed by the back of the collar and thrown across the back of a white horse. Young Mouse lets out a shout upon the realization that the mysterious man swung the thief on the horse with one mighty pull.

“Hey!” Arry shouts, struggling against the man who has an even harder grip on him than Meryn Trant did while still inside the city, fear right back in the child’s heart as the man takes a sharp turn to the left, away from the sea, away from the direction ahead that Arry wanted to go to.

“I will keep that one as pledge,” the man calls out over his shoulder, looking over his shoulder to the Lord Commander.

“Get him!” Trant shouts. “Or I will see you all punished for your disobedience! I will have you all whipped, you bastards! Get him! Get him, I said!”

But no soldier, no knight moves, no soldier, no knight can as the man rides away, followed by the shriek of the hawk flying above him, flying away with him. Instead, they all glance back at the fallen man who did not fall victim to the stranger’s blade, but to that of one of their own.

And judgment is in their eyes, nothing but judgment as the bells of the Sept ring above their heads, reach up into the teal sky, only to falter and tumble back to the ground again, because there is no way that the voice of the city full of sin can reach for the heavens at this point.

 

* * *

 

 

“Let go of me! Let me go!” Arry keeps shrieking and thrashing as the man keeps riding in Western direction, to where there are trees to hide behind. The young thief has no interest staying the _pledge_ of some stranger man, however brave he may be, however swift he may be with the blade, however fascinated Arry admittedly is.

Because Arry has other plans in mind. Like Braavos. Or one of the other Free Cities.

_Just anywhere not here, and anywhere but the North. Because that is no longer an option, no longer a passage to take._

A bridge burned.

“Will you keep still already?!” the man curses in frustration, holding on even tighter. “At that rate, you will fall off my horse and Honor is going to crush your skull by stepping on you. And we can't have that, can we?"

“I will stop if you let me go!” Arry bellows, moving arms and legs like a beetle, however futile it may appear to anyone else, Arry has always been a fighter, has never given up, no matter how chanceless the endeavor may have appeared.

Which may or may not be both a virtue and a curse.

“Seven Hells, you are one ungrateful child, for that I just saved your life,” the man huffs, giving Arry’s tunic another tug to ensure the young child cannot get off the horse, no matter the continuous attempt to achieve just that.

“I owe you absolutely nothing! I didn’t ask you to help me! And I didn’t ask to be made your pledge,” Arry insists stubbornly.

“Oh, you owe me your life,” the man corrects the young thief.

“I owe you a rat’s ass. I didn’t ask for your help, and I didn’t ask to be carried away! You can count yourself lucky that I can’t right now, but otherwise I would kill you – and you wouldn’t even see it coming, I promise you,” the child seethes.

 _Swift as a deer…_  
  
“Good luck with that… _without_ a sword,” the man huffs, now almost amused, which only drives Arry ever the madder. If there is one thing the child always despised, then it was being belittled.

“Give me a sword and then we will see!” Arry taunts the man. “How about that? Huh? Or aren’t you brave enough to try against a child?”

“Do you take me for a fool? I will not have you armed by any means. You might poke my eye out by accident. And I need both my eyes for the mission I need to fulfill,” the older man laughs as the horse sets for a trot, now that they are past the forest boundaries, though Arry doesn't know these woods, never having traveled through them.

_That means no good._

Or more precisely, that means that there is no escape for now.

“Then let me go and your eyes will stay in your skull, right where you need them for your bloody mission,” Arry snarls.

“You tell me, to where would you go, if I were to give you leave?” the man questions, still sounding far too amused to Arry’s liking.

_He is having fun at my expenses! The bastard! Forget that I only for a second dared to admire him! He is just another bastard, like all the others in the city!_

“It doesn’t matter. I always find my way around,” the young thief answers, wriggling around yet again, though to no avail – yet again.

“Yeah, I saw that. I bet you would have made your swift escape without me all the same,” the man chuckles. “I probably only ever interrupted your great hour of when you would have cut them all to the ground with just a single strike of your mighty… do you even have a dagger? Or a toothpick at the very least?”

“Perhaps I would have?” Arry scoffs with puckered lips.

“I find it rather unlikely. Those men are well trained, far better than you have ever been,” the older man tells Arry, which has the child struggle as hard as ever against his grip.

“You will take that back!” Arry shrieks.

“Take _what_ back?” the man asks, frowning.

“That they had better lessons in fighting than I did! That cannot be true. That isn’t true.”

“They are men of the Kingsguard… I mean _Queensguard_. They are the finest swordsmen in all of the Seven Kingdoms, in case it went without your notice," he argues.

“I had sword lessons with the First Sword of Braavos, Syrio Forel! And Syrio said that…,” Arry means to say, but the man is quick enough to interrupt young Mouse, arguing, “I don’t care for what your Syrio may or may not have said. I can just say that the men of the Queensguard will not be overpowered by a beansprout the likes of you.”

“I am not a beansprout!” Arry complains. “And in any case, they can’t be that good if they lose against a thug like you?”

“A thug like me? There are no men like me, only me,” the man laughs, all the while looking up to the sky to where the hawk is screeching, sounding almost as though the animal was shrieking specifically at him. Arry grimaces. That man seemingly is convinced that this bird actally understands him - and that he understands the hawk in turn.

"I said that to you not that often, now calm down!" he calls to the bird above, the bird, in reply, takes a dive, flying right above his head to almost send the hood off his head as the hawk climbs back into the sky.

"That was absolutely unnecessary. And for the record, you only ever prove me right!" the man shouts, but then turns his attention back to the child struggling against him while on the back of the horse. "Where was I?"

"That there are no men like you thug," Arry huffs. "And that you still beat those oh so great swordsmen despite their training and skill."

“Some of those men are the finest of sword fighters the country has ever seen.”

“And yet, you beat them. How good does that make them, huh?” Arry scoffs.

“That is because a master never teaches his pupils all of his tricks,” the man says, looking ahead.

Arry frowns at that. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“You don’t have to understand that,” the man answers.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” the young child snorts. "Or what to concern myself with, and what _not_."

“You remind me far too much of someone I know,” the man sighs, glancing up again, his voice momentarily softening as his eyes focus on the hawk flying above them. “Isn’t that right?”

“To where are you coot taking me?” Arry demands to know, calling the man’s attention away from the sky, back to the child on the back of his horse alongside him.

“Why would I tell you that?” he snorts. “Where would be the surprise in that, hm?"

"There is no need for surprises?"

"No, but we want to lose the tails likely to follow us," he argues, holding on tighter to the reins. "And that means we'd do best keeping off the usual tracks for a while. And those are paths you don't know anyway, so why bother telling you? Now hold on tight. A lot of stones and a bumpy road are ahead of us. And if you don’t hold on tightly, you will fall off the horse – and break your head, most likely. And that would be a pity, would it not?”

Arry lets out a grunt, but soon has to hold on for dear life as the horse maneuvers over sharp rocks, off the usual tracks, to where their trail will be lost in time, the string cut from the city of sin.

As it appears, Braavos will have to wait. For now, the direction ahead is to wherever that man will mean to take Arry.

And where that is? Arry has no clue, but the young thief reckons that it will be revealed in due time. After all, that strange man seems to have some urgent business to take care of. So perhaps taking up with the coot and his bird is not the almost bad, considering the alternatives. 

And truth be told, Arry would like to know what is the matter with the hooded man and his winged companion.

Arry wants to see, see it all.


	2. The Wind, the Wolf, and the Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Queen Cersei receives some unpleasant and unsettling news.
> 
> Arya learns more about her savior, and is less than impressed with some of his ideas of how their journey is supposed to carry on.
> 
> Trouble is not far away with someone following them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thanks for sticking around for my mad shredding!
> 
> I hope you are going to enjoy this chapter. 
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

In the rich gardens of the Red Keep, neatly cut back to bring forth the most formidable, artistic shapes, Queen Cersei Lannister walks beside the High Sparrow. She has her hands folded in the front, her crown letting shadows dance over her fine dress, as though they were tendrils holding her.

“… Have you never reconsidered putting on some shoes, now that you are High Septon for quite some time already?” she asks with a small smirk tugging at her lips as they continue down the rows of red roses and rhododendrons, as they have done some many times throughout the years.

“When the Seven called me to their service, I gave up my shoes, I gave up making shoes, since I used to be a cobbler… I gave up the man I once was, Your Grace,” he answers, looking down at his bare feet. “And I wouldn’t mean for the sin of pride to take a hold of me ever again. Thus, my feet will remain bare till the day I die.”

“Well, each his own,” she says, shaking her head before they carry down the rows of flowers, which are the silent witnesses of how politics are made between the little conversations, in the juncture between what may seem trivial, but bears on so much more meaning as even a living thing would catch, if it were to listen in on the words said, the gestures exchanged, the silent codes and languages that takes years to learn to read, and twice as long to master in its execution.

“So? Are there any news from the Faith that the Crown ought to share in? I hope all is going well?” Cersei asks, keeping her voice even and levelled, so not to disturb the fragile peace born between roses, anemones, rhododendrons, and tansies.

“The city is wretched and it needs to be cleansed of its sin,” the High Sparrow answers, looking on grimly.

“And you do a masterful job, getting rid of those sites of sin, the brothels and the inns where the common man gambles his own property away for a mere roll of the dice,” the Queen tells him in an easy kind of voice.

“But that is not nearly enough, I am afraid. We may rid King’s Landing of the _sites_ of the sin, but that does not remove the sin itself, Your Grace,” the older man argues, letting out a weary sigh towards the end of the sentence.

“And that is why we have the laws in accordance with the Faith that will make them repent for that which they have done,” the Queen argues, turning to him slightly while they keep walking on. “That was our plan all along, was it not?”

“It was indeed,” he agrees, nodding his head.

“I get the feeling that you have doubts, my good friend,” Cersei says, looking at him with a blank expression that holds nothing and yet, contains everything at once, because a Queen knows well to conceal, knows how to hide behind aloofness, the air of indifference, because the plain truth is that a Queen has to concern herself with everything and everyone, or else all power fought for with such will is going to be lost in the blink of an eye. It just takes one tripping stone to send a King on the edge of a knight’s sword – and she should know.

“Being too sure of something leads to pride, too, and that is a sin in itself,” the High Sparrow argues.

“But there must be something that calls you to such caution, after you made such a brave step forward to the Crown, to unite that which used to be parted,” Queen Cersei argues, tilting her head to the side slightly.

“I am not sure whether we do it right, Your Grace,” he replies. “And that is what makes me cautious, what gives me pause.”

“It was _you_ who suggested that the laws have to mirror our Faith in order to help our citizens find their way back into the arms of the Seven,” Cersei argues, cocking an eyebrow at him. “I seem to recall quite vividly that speech you gave, standing at the bottom of the stairs leading to the Iron Throne.”

“And to that, I hold on with all of my heart, with all of my undying soul,” the High Sparrow says, nodding his head again.

“Then what has you unsure?” she questions.

“We smoke out brothels, we make the sinners walk down the streets to atone for that which they have done, we tear down the false idols, we break people’s pride, with our clubs if we must, and yet… this city remains in sin, Your Grace,” the High Sparrow explains, licking his dry lips.

“Well, people bear a lot of sin in themselves that needs to be atoned for first,” she argues, cautious to keep her voice as light as a feather’s touch, though Queen Cersei makes sure that her feathers bear at least one sharp edge at all times.

“That’s true without a doubt, but what truly concerns me is that… we still have men laying with women they didn’t wed in the eyes of the Seven, or those who have taken a vow and choose to break it by laying with someone else, we still have those people give in to their weak flesh. We still have gamble. We still have false preachers and non-believers. We still have prostitutes trying their luck outside the city gates, to where the Faith Militant’s arm cannot reach as easily…”

“If you wish to expand your influence beyond the city gates, you just have to say so, my friend,” Cersei quickly intercepts, rolling her right wrist in a circular motion.

“ _That_ is not my issue,” the older man argues. “My problem lies in that no matter what we do, no matter how much we try to cleanse them of their sin, they return to their old ways if given the chance. The moment we get them away from the edge leading down to their own damnation though atonement, the moment we let them go again, they run straight back to the point from where we saved them.”

“You know, I tend to think of those people as stray dogs,” Cersei says with a calm smile, looking over the rich gardens she calls her own, just like everything else in the palace. “They have unlearned to listen to the master’s commands, and the only way to make a stray an obedient pet again is to bring it to discipline, over and over, until you break its will, until you break it.”

“Well, I don’t think of them as strays, but rather… people who got lost and keep getting lost. They need guidance, as you say. We need to show them the exact way, and ensure they do not misstep. And that only works by showing them the importance of keeping on the right path.”

“On that we perfectly agree,” the Queen says, nodding her head, sending the shadows of her crown to yet another round of dance over her hair and dress.

“You may recall that in the early times of our collaboration, I divulged a personal secret to you,” the High Sparrow continues, calling Cersei’s attention back to him.

“And I have never told anyone about that,” she assures him quickly. “Of course.”

“Oh, I have no doubt, Your Grace. However, the condition… it has not changed. In fact, it seems to worsen as the city keeps falling deeper into sin. I wanted to believe that once we brought the Crown back into the arms of the Faith, those dreams would end… and I prayed to the Seven that they would stop after that night up in the White Sword Tower where…,” he means to say, but the Queen quickly interrupts him, “We need not speak of that now, my friend. While I pride myself having good grips on my servants around the palace, one cannot know who might be listening. We agreed that this matter was to be handed with _utmost_ discretion, so not to make an example of them, so not to cause an uproar and give the public any more ideas. We mean to douse fires, not let them catch flame, right?”

“But they are long since gone, and still, the dreams keep coming,” the High Sparrow insists. “Which has me think that our mission is far from finished, that our goal is far from being achieved – and that the Gods are telling me just that, over and over, urging me to act.”

“And you have a suggestion that would remedy that?” Cersei questions.

They stop in their tracks, standing by the tansies, which rustle in the soft breeze.

The Queen studies the pious man before her. She can see the shift in the man’s gestures, in his stance – and that never means any good.

“I have been thinking that it may be time to make more changes to the law,” he begins to explain.

“In what way?” she asks coolly.

“You made a brave step when you agreed to align law and order more strongly with the teachings of our Faith, but I grow more and more convinced that we have to go one step further.”

“To where?” Cersei questions.

“To let law be that of the Seven alone,” the High Sparrow announces.

“What are you suggesting, my friend?” the Queen asks, her face blank whereas her mind is filled with so much more than meets the eye, pondering the words, deciphering the messages.

“You know that I speak to the people,” he says.

“Of course, that is what you are meant to do. You have their hearts because you speak to them as one of their own, for which I am ever the more grateful.”

“The people are in a turmoil, Your Grace, and I tend to think that this adds to their condition. They know that the law coming from the palace is rule, they know that it is close to the laws of the Gods, and yet… it’s not the same. Because they are taken and oftentimes punished by the Crown and not the Faith. And yet, it is the Faith that is meant to help them repent,” the High Sparrow explains.

Cersei leans her head to the side slowly. “Are you suggesting that I no longer have my men enforce the law?”

“I am suggesting that you leave it to my Faith Militant, yes. Because if we are the ones carrying out the laws of the Queen, which are the same as the laws of our Faith, then there is no longer a reason for turmoil. There will be order at last,” the man tells her.

Cersei tilts her head to the other side, then, before asking with a smile that almost vanishes at the fact that her eyes are all but narrow slits now. “And yet… that would give you… a lot of power.”

“I would merely be enforcing the laws you bring into existence, Your Grace,” he insists. “You would have your men dedicated to the greater causes, _your_ causes, that of the Crown. The Faith Militant’s one purpose is to enforce the laws of the Faith. So let us do what we are meant to do – in your name.”

“Or in _yours_ , wouldn’t it be?” she argues, her smile stoic, meaning nothing, holding nothing. “Because the people would then think of you as the person wielding the power, wielding the sword. It would make the Queen no longer head of the executive, but just the judicative, bringing into being the laws which _you_ enforce, with clubs and walks of shame. And just like that… the Crown would fade in the eyes of the Great Sept of Baelor, wouldn’t it?”

“The executive will always be inferior to the judicative, Your Grace. We are your arm, to carry out your orders, but you are the body, the mind, the heart. I just have the feeling that we could be doing more, to cleanse the people of their sins, to help them achieve salvation and absolution from their sin that keep corrupting them. And that may be the way out, the way out of those nightmares,” he tells her.

The Queen lets silence stretch between them longer and longer, lets it brush through the gardens as the winds make the flowers dance, leaving them unmoving all the while.

“I will give that consideration, but I must consult with my advisors on those very delicate matters, you might be able to imagine, my good friend,” she says at last, giving his arm a light, if not warm, squeeze. “It is as you say. The Twin Pillars must stand on a strong foundation, or else, the towers will collapse. The Faith and the Crown are entwined, are boughs of the same mighty tree, holding up the world to the Seven.”

The Queen points to the tree to their right, neatly cut in shape, nicely contained in the space it belongs to, just like everything in the garden follows the orders much better than most other people likely ever will.

“And that goes hand in hand with trust,” Cersei continues in a quiet tone. “I need your absolute trust, you absolute _faith_ that I do everything within my powers to hold the Two Pillars together, to bring the wretched to reason, to punish the sinners and bring them to justice, so that they all find shelter under the tree the Faith and the Crown are meant to uphold.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” the older man agrees, nodding his head, hands folded in his back, swinging back and forth on his bare feet lightly.

“So you will have to trust me that I will think about this _very_ carefully. Such decisions must be made with caution – or else, as you just said, we may act out of pride, and not for the good of the people. And we could not afford that, could we?” Cersei asks slowly, daring to stretch the words, expand them by the edges, just to be sure that they carry the right message across.

“Of course not, Your Grace,” the High Sparrow says, returning the smile from before in kind, because he, too, is not unfamiliar to the games, it seems. “And until you have reached your decision, my Faith Militant will keep enforcing the laws you make to the degree to which you grant us, just in the way that the Crown once forbade us while chasing us from the cities like filthy sinners, when all we meant to do was bring the Gods’ justice.”

Cersei smiles back at him before gesturing at the older man to start walking again. He nods his head once more and the two start down the rows of tansies, over to where the anemones stand in full bloom.

“And that was a heinous crime,” Cersei sighs. “You were merely doing what our Gods wanted of you, of all of us. But you see, _that_ is what I am trying to see changed, now that I am Queen. You know that my deceased husband, may the Crone have guided him the way to the Seven Heavens, for all his strength, for all his bravery in defeating the wicked Targaryens, with their fiery pillaging, bringing wretched beasts to our lands, and making the sin of incest rule… was not a man of great faith.”

“Most certainly not,” the High Sparrow says. “From what you told me… King Robert was full of sin and never tried to repent for it during his life, however short it may have been cut by that hunt that cost him his life – and you a loving husband.”

“I want to believe that the Seven went mildly on him once he stepped before them,” the Queen exhales. “He was _such_ a good and loving husband to me. And the Seven know that my heart is still heavy for the sorrow that I was not granted to bear one of his children before he passed away, to remind me of him…”

She takes a moment to pause, knowing very well that sometimes silence carries more than words ever could, because they leave space for imagination, for the other to fill the gaps in what he or she feels is fitting, feels is right, and that oftentimes proves more favorable when you are not entirely sure what the person you are speaking to would actually mean to say or thinks you would say.

“However, no matter how much of a loving husband and beloved soldier he was, my dear Robert just wasn’t made of the stuff that makes Kings and Queens, I am afraid,” Cersei continues after a while. “He was a soldier, he was a knight, and perhaps, he never should have let that go. That was the one thing that seemed to have given him a reason to live, whereas the crown only ever weighed heavy on his head.”

“Well, had he not been named King, had he not climbed the Iron Throne after Mad King Aerys fell, you wouldn’t ever have become Queen as his successor,” the High Sparrow argues.

“True again,” she agrees with a small smirk. “Only the Gods will know of the horrors that would have awaited us, had one of his brothers climbed the Iron Throne in my stead. One lays with men, and the other prays to the Red God for guidance, can you imagine?” she scoffs.

“Very misguided souls that would do best repenting for their sins instead of letting their pride have them believe that they are true successors to the Crown, though evidently, King Robert meant for you to take his place,” the septon sighs, shaking his head in disapproval.

“And they will in due time, my good friend,” the Queen assures him. “So long the Two Pillars stand together, their sins will not catch flame. I will fight that with all that I have. And maybe, that will finally make better visions swim up before your eyes as you dream of our future.”

“I hope so. You know as well as me that… back then… we took quite desperate measurements to ensure…,” the High Sparrow means to say, but that is when the Lord Commander rushes up to them, or rather staggers, the heavy golden armor almost tossing him off his feet as he takes fast strides, disturbing the otherwise so peaceful scenery, though then again, it never was that peaceful.

There is never peace, just ceasefire.

“What brings you here, Lord Commander?” Cersei asks with a grimace as she sees the gasping man approach. “You do see that the High Septon and I are in private conversation?”

“I must excuse myself, Your Grace, but the news, I am afraid, cannot wait,” Ser Meryn says, blowing out air through his nostrils.

“What news?” the Queen demands to know.

“Ser Jaime has returned,” the Lord Commander says, thereby bringing the illusion of peace to shatter right by the anemones swinging in the winds, continuing their dance undisturbed by the storm rising by the foundation of the Twin Pillars.

“What?” Cersei shouts, gritting her teeth, the calmness bleeding out of her too fast for her to even begin to gather her composure again.

That cannot be. That simply cannot be.

The High Sparrow takes a step back, his hand travelling up to his throat with shaky fingers.

“That wretched beast of a man!” he shouts, aghast. “I saw that in my dream! I knew it was him, hiding in the shadows! It was him!”

“Where is he?” Cersei demands to know of Ser Meryn.

“Gone again,” he informs her, his voice trembling with uncertainty. “We ran into him outside the city gates.”

“And he escaped you. And _all_ of your men,” Cersei states, doesn’t question, which may perhaps be even more threatening.

“One of them recognized him under the hood he wore. I had to act fast, so that they didn’t know whom they were up against, to keep Your Grace’s secret, as you had told me. However, that kill demoralized them for a moment, which allowed for Ser Jaime’s escape,” Meryn explains.

“Your Grace, we must find that man and hunt him down. Give leave to my Faith Militant to bring this wicked soul to the justice of the Gods,” the High Sparrow tells her. “So that, at last, he can be put to trial for the crimes and sins he committed in the eyes of the Seven, instead of roaming the lands after he escaped from the palace back in the day.”

Cersei looks back at the High Sparrow as she lets out a sigh, fixing the crown sitting on the top of her head, before her calm smile of nothingness returns. “My good friend, this may seem worse than it is. And I have just told you that I will not act rashly to have the Faith Militan’s role shift.”

“But this is a sign, Your Grace! The Gods are telling us…,” the septon insists, but the Queen won’t let him go on with his frenzy, having seen enough of that over the years, because the man can’t let it go, which is both her fortune and her misfortune at the same time.

“And I am telling you that I will make it my personal obligation to see about Ser Jaime – and bring him to the Queen’s justice, to the justice of the Gods. You have my word for it,” Queen Cersei assures him before turning back to Ser Meryn Trant, her gaze holding all that he must know before she even opens her mouth to speak.

“And what of the thief you were meant to bring me?” the Queen asks coolly, barely moving her lips apart as she speaks. “Where is he?”

“Ser Jaime… he has taken the boy before riding off,” the Lord Commander admits, bowing his head, to which the Queen can’t help but roll her eyes.

In fact, it is high time for a change of time, a change of the system, just not at all what the High Sparrow has in mind.

“Your Grace, we must act now,” said man insists yet again. “This beast of a man is back in the city. The sin has returned to King’s Landing alongside him. Now is the chance to bring him to justice in the eyes in the Seven. We must find him so that, at last, he can be put to proper trial, as the laws of the Gods wanted it all along.”

“I am aware, my good friend,” Cersei argues. “But you heard the Lord Commander, we have to find him first. And since you are meant to keep the city free of sin, that is the task you should leave to my men.”

“There will be no justice in the city until proper trial proceedings are fulfilled for the man who escaped them,” he goes on. “The last time, we went out of the way of the Gods to…”

“I know, I know, my friend,” the Queen interrupts him quickly. “It was a desperate situation calling for equally desperate measurements. But now there is a way to right the wrong. However, you should leave it to _my_ men to find him and bring him to the justice he deserves. I will make it my personal obligation, I assure you.”

She turns to Meryn Trant another time. “Was there anything else, Lord Commander? Did he say something? Did he expose part of his plan?”

“He’s only ever spoken of revenge, Your Grace,” Ser Meryn recounts. “But then this bird shrieked, and he rode off.”

Somewhere in the distance, a twig falls off one of the neatly cut trees to the ground below with a thud, daring to overstep its boundaries, creating a small chaos in itself, but nonetheless a disturbance of the order that comes with just the touch of the wind against wood and leaves, against the world that can so easily fall back into the patterns that were meant to be cast out, cut out without mercy or hesitation.

“What bird?” the Queen shouts, gritting her teeth.

“A falcon, maybe,” Ser Meryn answers, blinking. “I don’t know.”

“What bird, I asked!” she repeats, seething.

“Maybe it was a falcon or… or a hawk? It had strange colors.”

“Did that beast travel with him?” the Queen demands to know.

“What? What does it matter?” the knight asks, blinking, unable to make sense of any of this.

“Just tell me! It is none of your concern what I think matters and what does not, for I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!” Cersei shouts.

“The bird flew his direction. I don’t know…,” Ser Meryn begins, but the Queen has had enough: “Find that bird – and you will find Ser Jaime. Send out as many men as you can spare and return Ser Jaime and the bird to me. I expect results as soon as possible, or else it may well be that someone else will be the Lord Commander in your stead whereas you will have to clean the boots of all the recruits until your hands are all but bloody blisters. Is that understood?”

“Of course, Your Grace. I will see to that at once,” the Lord Commander replies hastily, bowing his head over and over as he walks backwards, almost stumbling yet again.

“Then be gone! Be gone!” she shouts, and with that, the man turns around and rushes away as fast as his feet allow him to, leaving the Queen and the High Sparrow standing by the anemones and the roses, the Crown and the Faith apparently not as strong a tree to fend off the chaos of the world.  

“I think we should double your sermons, my friend,” she says coolly, looking at Meryn Trant as he goes, brushing her fingertips over one of the red flowers. “It’s as you say, the sin is back in the city, and we have to exorcise it before it can catch flame.”

She pulls the rose out, her hands tightening around the thorny stem, not minding the pain at all. “We have to tear it out, with root, stem, petals and all.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

 

* * *

  
  
Somewhere, deep in a part of the woods West of the capitol that Arry has never set foot upon, the young thief tries yet to find a way out of the clutches of the mysterious man who may have saved the child’s life, but seems to have no interest to let it walk free, no matter Mouse’s insistence and struggle to the contrary. Arry long since lost track of where they entered the woods. After the rocky path the man took them on, they entered the woods by a small creek, through the water to the other side. Though thankfully, none of t goldcloaks or Kingsguard knights came after them.

_For now anyway._

While Arry was hopeful for a while that this man may be one of the few men of honor, the young child grows less and less convinced, because after they were well into the woods, the man would not let the young child go, no matter how much Arry fought, pleaded even. In fact, the young thief grows increasingly convinced that the man might be insane, all the while talking to his admittedly majestic bird as though it was an actual person.

Though Mouse cannot deny the fascination this bird sparks within against the caution preventing Arry from investing too much to see behind that mystery. The young child has never seen an animal quite like that – the feathers shine almost blue when the light hits it at the right angle. It’s freakish big, even for a hawk, and it looks almost too tall to carry itself while on the ground, heavy on its feet whenever it walks on the ground.

Though the man carries the hawk on his shoulder or arm as though it was as light as a feather, Arry noted, to which the stranger man only ever laughed and said, “Well, in contrast to others, I am strong enough, as I keep telling her, despite the fact that she doesn’t want to admit that to herself. She is rather sensitive on those matters.”

At that point of time, it didn’t surprise Arry that the hawk flapped its wings right in his face for the comment.

Thus, this bird seems almost unnaturally big, unnaturally heavy on its clawed feet, but once the bird spreads its wide wings to set to the sky above, it flies with a kind of elegance Arry has rarely seen before, cutting through the winds as swiftly as the stranger cut through the masses of gold and white outside the city gates. And even more curious than the color and the sheer size of the winged beast, the animal seems to have a keen understanding of what is going on around it, able to give signals to the mysterious man that he seems to understand with little effort from below.

_And on occasion, scold the man for his behavior._

Which, Arry will admit, is rather amusing to watch.

“I think Honor needs a break,” the man comments, pulling on the reins to bring the steed to a halt. Arry looks up to the small clearing that the stranger chose for them to take a rest, only to let out a shriek when pulled off the horse and forcefully sat down by an old oak.

“Hey!” Arry cries out.

“You have to pay better attention,” is the only reply Arry receives from the man who quickly reaches into his saddlebag to retrieve a skin and a small bowl into which he pours water for the animal to drink from hastily.

Arry watches as the hawk dives through the canopy to land on a thick tree branch facing towards the child.

“So? What is the plan now? I don’t think the men are still on our trail,” Arry questions. “Or will you mean to keep me as your slave?”

“You are far too stubborn for a slave even if I wanted to have you as such, but no thanks,” the older man scoffs as he sits down on a moss-covered stone right underneath the branch upon which the hawk takes its rest.

“Then what is the plan?” Arry asks again.

Though the child would rather ask: “Why did you save me?”

“There is a plan?” he asks with a grin as he pulls the hood off his head, revealing dark blond curls underneath, a man with darting eyes, a certain hardness to his features, but nevertheless a kind of softness whenever his gaze wanders to the bird close by. “Listen to that! I didn’t know until just now that we had one.”

“I thought you had some grand mission to fulfill.”

“And you are not important enough to me to have you join it,” he snorts, reaching into his coat’s pocket to take out a yellowed piece of linen to rub against his gloves over and over, until it turns brown and red by the edges.

 _Little do you know how important I used to be_ , Arry wants to say, but then doesn’t, thinking better of it.

That bridge was burned, after all, because adventure and swords seemed more important, seemed closer to where Arry wanted to be before it was all too late to undo the decisions made.

“Ever the more a reason to let me go.”

And even if he doesn’t, it’s only a matter of time until Arry will get out. Arry is a thief after all, and thieves always find their way out of trouble. That is their way to live, their art.

While there may be no swift escape during the day, chances will keep arising in the midst of the night, the child is most certain of it. Arry has found ways out of some many tough situations by using the night, by flitting though darkness and shadows, becoming one with them, so perchance the darkness will yet again prove to be the friend of the thieves.

“Is it really that they call you Mouse?” the dark-clad man asks, continuing to rub the strip of linen of the glove. It is only then that Arry recognizes the dark red, the blood that the man tries to scrub away. The blood of the man who died for no more than muttering a name, for recognizing something, someone.

For simply seeing something that he shouldn’t have.

Arry can see the man’s sad grimace, the pained expression, and apparently, the young child is not the only one aware of it, since the hawk hops off the branch to gently lower itself on the man’s shoulder, as though to offer comfort, a bit of solace for the man he had dying in his arms, a man he whispered “brother” to.

“How would you know that?” Arry demands to know, uncomfortable with the idea that this man may know more about the young thief than Arry would want to let on, because thieves do best concealing who they are, and perhaps even more importantly, who they once were.

“Rumors spread even beyond the gates of King’s Landing. I should know,” he laughs drily. “Those about me spread as fast as wildfire, let me tell you.”

He looks up to the hawk sitting on his shoulder, offering a mild smile at the beast. “The both of us. Apologies. I didn’t mean to exclude you.”

“You know that bird doesn’t understand you, right?” Arry comments. The strange man laughs at the young child in turn. “Oh, we don’t understand each other at all. That has always been the one thing we could agree upon, right?”

He looks back at the hawk, to which the bird just screeches at him.

“See? You even disagree with me stating that we disagree, you stubborn thing,” he huffs, rolling his eyes. “For a hawk, you act much like a mule, you know?”

“What do you want with me?” Arry asks, calling the man’s attention back to the other human he should be talking to, if only he forgot about the bird for a while, which seems to be the one thing on his mind.

“Tell me your name.”

“You know it’s Mouse,” Arry argues, grimacing because the name still does not sit well with the child, but that needn’t concern the man. “You just said it yourself.”

The man studies Arry for a moment, letting out a dry laughter, evidently not buying into a thing the child says. Not that this is unfamiliar to Arry, adults always tend to think that children can’t make choices on their own. That was part of what drove the young thief out of one life and into the next, in search for a purpose that was not chosen by someone else, by family, by the order of things, but one that the child decided on.

_Not that this worked out greatly in the end…_

“Why did you save me?” the young thief then asks instead, in the hope that maybe he will keep away from the topic following that question, because that is what makes no sense whatsoever, no matter how hard Arry ponders, tries to see. Why would the man risk being caught for a thief no one knows or long since forgot about?

_Why bother with a little thief no one cares about otherwise?_

“Again, tell me your name,” the man says in an easy voice, not looking at Arry, but instead continuously cleaning his gloves.

“Mouse,” Arry repeats. “As I said…”

“That is the name _others_ gave you, but I don’t think your parents named you such, unless your father was the Rat Cook himself,” the older man scoffs.

“My father is the most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms!” Arry curses, leaning forward with gritted teeth. “Don’t you dare…”

“And who would your honorable father be? Hm?” the man intercedes.

“I… I don’t have to tell you that,” Arry answers quickly, leaning back against the tree.

“No, but if you want to bypass that I call you Mouse or Rat all the while, you may want to give me your name,” the man argues.

“Arry. The name’s Arry,” the child replies curtly, forcefully, pushing the words out of the mouth as though they were acid.

“I mean your _actual_ name, you foolish thing,” the older man sighs, rolling his eyes in frustration. “I am not that dumb to fail to see past what is an obvious lie.”

“That _is_ my name!” Arry insists. “My name is Arry!”

“Arry is a _boy’s_ name. And… quite obviously, you are anything but a boy,” the man scoffs, this time looking at Arry with a smirk. “So you tell me, how comes a girl bears the name of a boy called Mouse, called Arry?”

“I _am_ Arry!” Arry shouts. “I _am_ a boy!”

“ _Girl_ , you will not fool me. I have seen women more mannish than you, and still, I have seen past their armor. You don’t even begin to compare to that with a bit of short-cropped hair and breeches, I am afraid,” he scoffs, before allowing his gaze to wander back to the bird sitting on his shoulder yet again, flashing a grin as the hawk flutters its wings gently, sending some of his curls falling into his face.  

“I know the difference, but it does surprise me that no one else seems to have caught that,” the man continues. “Though then again… the world is full of fools and good-for-nothings. That may be the reason why. So now, will you remind me of your name, girl?”

“You already know it? If so, why bother to ask?” Arry pouts.

“To make a point,” he answers, his expression suddenly serious.

“A… Ar… Arya. Arya Stark, of…,” she means to say, but the man completes, “of Winterfell.”

Arry, who used to be Arya Stark back in another, brushes her fingertips over her chapped lips. She can’t remember the last time the words travelled past her lips. They grew unfamiliar, something alien, something she only ever thought, but stopped carrying into the world.

_Arya Stark. My name is Arya Stark…_

“Yes, how do you know that…?” Arya asks, eyes wide at the realization that the man apparently seems to know her, seems to know not just her present self, but also that of the past that remained on the other side of the burned bridge all that time ago.

“As I said, rumors spread fast. So you really think there is anyone around here who _hasn’t_ heard from the little wolf who ran away from home before the rest of the pack retreated back to the North, to where the pack originally belongs?” he snorts.

“I didn’t run away from _home_. I ran away in _King’s Landing_ , and King’s Landing never was my home, won’t ever be. That place is rotten to the core,” Arya insists.

“Oh, on that we perfectly agree,” he snorts. “One rotten apple.”

“My father came here with my sister and I to visit King Robert after Jon Arryn died,” Arya continues with bowed head. “Robert wanted him as Lord Hand, but it never came to that because the King went hunting and a boar opened him from chin to belly, spilling the royal guts.”

She never felt close to the man her father was always speaking of so fondly. Back before they headed down South, Arya tended to think of King Robert Baratheon as a man carved out of the same stuff as her father, strong, honorable, loyal, but when they came to King’s Landing, when they entered the Red Keep, what she saw was a man who had grown fat and complacent, who laughed at things that were no joking matter, who didn’t care for what was in his care, and was not at all what her father said he once been, had once stood for. And while Arya otherwise always shared her Father’s sentiment, almost chased it in order to be closer to the man she had spent looking up to for a long time of her short life, she grew increasingly irritated at her father’s insistence to the honor of a man who had clearly forgotten all about it.

However, that seems to be the thing with friends you don’t see for long. You remember only their past selves, and that gives way to making idols of people who are for a long time already no longer fitting the description.

Not that Arya would ever have fallen into that trap, _of course_.

“To say it with the words of the Dothraki, it is known,” the man laughs.

“Well, what do you ask me if you already know the answer?” she scoffs.

“You asked me why I saved you – and your name holds the simple answer to that very mystery. You are Arya Stark of Winterfell. _That_ is why,” the older man answers.

“But how did you know I was there?” Arya asks, trying to understand, trying to understand. “How did you know it was me?”

“I wasn’t looking for you, don’t be foolish. I heard of your disappearance like anyone else had, and paid no greater mind to it. That I intercepted your being hunted down by Meryn Trant and the soldiers of the Queensguard was by mere chance. I came to the city for something… _different_ ,” the mysterious man explains, before adding quickly, “But that needn’t concern you.”

“You couldn’t have seen me from afar,” Arya argues.

“I just saw a boy in trouble, and I said to myself that the Queensguard was going out of its way to have a small army rise against a boy without a single weapon on him,” the man answers. “I thought it as only fair to offer at least _one_ sword to the other side.”

He lets out a dry chuckle at the thought, allowing his gaze to wander up to the canopy rustling above their heads in the gentle breeze sweeping across the lands, keeping things pleasantly out of the order of things the city means to impose.

“Well, and once I came closer… I simply took a good look at you and remembered the drawings they had all over the city back when Arya Stark of Winterfell disappeared from the Red Keep, sending the entire city into an uproar to look for the child of honorable Lord Eddard Stark who apparently managed to not just mislay his sword or favorite tunic… but his daughter,” he explains with a snort, slowly turning his gaze back down. “Once I saw you, I knew who you were, and then… well, I had to save you, whether I wanted to or not.”

“Why?” Arya asks with a frown.

“I always rescue maidens,” Jaime laughs, surprised when the bird flaps its wing against his head as though to slap him. “Hey! We talked about how you are supposed to be a well-behaved bird, you ungrateful thing!”

This time, the bird pecks on his head. The man shakes his hand over his head to make the hawk stop.

“I almost forgot that your foul nature never seems to change,” he scoffs, before focusing his attention back on the girl looking like a boy before him.

“Then where are you taking me, if you know who I am?” Arya asks cautiously.

“Well, away from King’s Landing, of course. Honor compels me that I return you to your family,” the man answers. “Simple as that.”

“You are… you are bringing me home?” Arya asks, suddenly feeling out of breath.

Home grew to be such a distant concept that Arya can only bring up blurry images of Winterfell to the back of her mind. She tried to make space for the future she thought was awaiting her once she took up the sword again to learn the water dance that Syrio meant to teach her in all of its complexities, but that future never came.

“I may not personally escort you all the way to Winterfell, because I have my own duties to mind, but I will see to it that you get safe passage North… I have some favors I can call in, once we get to the place I have in mind… However, we have to let some time pass before we can see you safely off North – because the Queen will have you searched under every rock and every brush for quite a while. Because they have seen you with me,” the man explains.

“What do you have to do with that?” Arya asks, frowning, brushing some loose strands of her dark hair behind her ear as the breeze keeps messing it up even more than it is by nature.

“Well, there may or may not be a kind of bounty on my head,” he says with a weary grin.

Arya cocks an eyebrow at that. “You are a thug after all.”

“I call myself a _Rebel to the Crown_ ,” he laughs before looking back at the bird. “Fine, _two_ Rebels to the Crown. I wouldn’t ever mean to hurt your pride.”

“So… you think they are chasing me now that I am with you… _because_ I am with you,” Arya says with a grimace. “You know, that is not exactly… keeping me safe.”

“Well, that will certainly constitute the Queen’s interest in having you recaptured more urgently than she may desire otherwise, but… frankly speaking now, you were about to be killed or dragged away by the Queensguard, had I not intervened, so if I were you, I wouldn’t complain about a _potential_ threat when I indeed saved you from a very… real one, a very… lethal one.”

Arya opens her mouth to object, but finds no good reason to do such. The man, however much his snarky grin annoys her already, has the rights of it in that regard. If not for him, she would be right back in the black cells to rot in.

_If not for him and the hawk, I would be dead._

“Though I can’t help but wonder… what did you do that you had Meryn Trant himself chase you with half of his best men?” the older man questions, tilting his head to the side.

“I broke out of prison,” Arya answers simply.

He frowns at her at that. “Well, that has happened before.”

“I got out of the _black cells_.”

“But those are inescapable, as far as I am concerned,” the man argues, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Well, I sit here with you now, so they can’t be _that_ inescapable,” Arya replies, shrugging her shoulders.

“And _how_ did you do that?” he asks.

“As if I was going to tell you that,” the girl scoffs with a grin. “A thief doesn’t tell his tricks.”

The man chuckles drily at that yet again. “Well, you would have had better chances had you just exposed yourself to the Queen. That way, you wouldn’t have been forced to go the long, painful way of almost getting killed by Meryn Trant and his men. The Queen likely saw your face before. She should recognize you.”

“Oh, I once was brought before her, after some small incident about tossing tomatoes at the Red Keep… she didn’t recognize me at all. I was just another boy to her,” Arya argues, the memory of the queen in her own right still fresh on the young girl’s mind. It was as though Cersei saw right through her, past her, as though she didn’t exist, though then again, Arya tends to think that to the Queen, there really is just one thing that exists – and that is the Queen herself. “And that was when I just knew that even if I told her, the Queen wouldn’t believe it… and neither would I want her to.”

“Why so?” he asks.

“Had it succeeded, they would have sent me back home,” Arya answers.

“Which is what is happening now,” the older man argues.

“I don’t wish to return home, though,” Arya points out to him, which has him react rather harshly as he speaks, “Are you out of your mind, girl? _Of course_ you want to go home. As I said, I have no use for the likes of you on the mission I mean to embark on soon enough.”

“And I don’t want to tag after you,” Arya huffs. “We should just part ways. I will go off once we are out of the woods, quite literally so.”

“I can’t allow for that,” the man insists, shaking his head no.

“It’s my wish,” Arya argues, tapping her index finger against her chest.

“And you are a child that doesn’t know better,” he scoffs, having none of it.

“I do know better!”

“Well, I don’t care. That is not happening. While I would rather not have exposed myself that early to Trant and his men, that is the situation now, which means that we have to stay off the usual paths for a while before I can make my return to the city to carry out my duty. Until then, like it or not, you are bound to do as I say,” the older man proclaims, much to Arya’s disagreement:

“You can’t force me,” she shouts.

“Oh, I can – and I will,” the man announces, not caring for her struggle. “You are not staying here, you are returning to your loved ones in the North and rub it right under good old Ned’s nose that a thug saw his dear daughter safely back home.”

“You know him?” she asks, blinking.

“I don’t like him, that much I can say,” he scoffs, getting back up.

“What’s your name, then?” Arya wants to know.

“Jaime,” he says, not looking at the young girl, allowing for the gust of the wind to make a mess of his hair, brush against his face like a cool hand’s caress.

“I heard that, but what’s your last name?” Arya questions.

“It’s Jaime… just Jaime,” he says, putting his gloves back on, looking up to the sky, which is darkening by the edges. “We ought to be on our way again. Night is coming and we need to find someplace to spend the night.”

“Can’t we make camp here?” Arya asks with a grimace. “Why go elsewhere? That spot of earth is as good as any other.”

That is what living in the streets has taught Arya throughout the years. She had to give up rather sooner or later to hold on to certain places, to hold on to the fondness one may feel for them, for the memories they bear.

“If so, I would have said that,” Jaime answers, stuffing the blood stained cloth into his pocket. “It’s not safe here, that is why we can’t stay.”

“I thought you had shaken off our tails,” Arya taunts him.

“One can never know, but it’s not the tails I am concerned with,” he argues.

“Who else?”

“Not who but what is the appropriate question you should be asking,” he replies. “This is too much in the open for when the creatures of the night take over.”

“And you think there is a safe place around here?” Arya questions.

“I know there is because I have passed through these woods before, many times. You are not the only one who has spent years travelling, little wolf,” he tells her, offering a small smirk that Arya is rather convinced of is not at all earnest, because there is a sadness pulling on the edges of his mouth, as though that voyage he undertook was no pleasant journey through the woods, but a passage marked by sacrifice.

“But I don’t care about some stupid badgers!” Arya pouts.

“And yet, I say that we leave, which is why you are getting up and back on the horse,” Jaime answers with a sigh, before adding more forcefully, “Now.”

“But I don’t want to,” Arya laments.

“And I don’t care for what you _want_. I care for what needs to be done,” he tells her. “And that is the end of the conversation.”

The hawk hops on his arm and starts fluttering its wings wildly.

“Ugh, you never take my side on these matters, do you?” Jaime laments. “It should be clear even to you that, evidently, she started.”

“Hey!” Arya cries out, puckering her lips.

“What do _you_ care? You think she doesn’t understand what we say anyway, hm?” Jaime scoffs. “So why bother?”

Arya narrows her eyes at the man as he carefully sets the big bird back on the branch from which it hopped onto his shoulder. He strokes his gloved hand over its blueish feathers once. “The girl doesn’t know better, so you’d do better not to listen to her. And for the record, that means you should be mad at her, not me.”

Jaime then turns back around to Arya, gesturing at her to get up. “You can either follow me on your own, or I will have you tied up in a bundle. Which will you choose?”

Arya grumbles, but then approaches the horse silently. Jaime gives a nod before untying Honor, clapping the steed on the side before mounting the horse, pulling the young girl along to sit in front of him.

The bird, seemingly disappointed, takes flight above the trees, allows itself to be carried away by the wind that once touched Jaime’s face with a cold caress, to a sky that is changing its color and shape over and over.

“I will _not_ apologize to you for that, just so that you know, wench!” he calls out after the hawk.

“ _Wench_?” Arya repeats, making a face.

“A pet name,” he says with a grin that falters as he adds quietly, “from the former days, which are long since… over.”

Arya grimaces, ever the more convinced that the man is rather focused on hiding his sadness when smiling and joking than he is with genuinely laughing in the face of the world, no matter how badly it may treat him. And for reasons Arya cannot even begin to grasp, there is a part in her that feels something she thought she managed to rid herself over time – there is a part of her that feels with the man, in those fractions in time when he looks at that majestic bird in the sky with longing, with the same sadness he meant to conceal when speaking about the journey he undertook through the woods many times.

And so, she simply steps forward, away from the tree, over to the horse, no uttering another word of protest.

Sometimes silence says more than words can muster.

Jaime looks back at her, offering what is likely intended as a smile, but does not come across as such, really, before opening his arms to lift the girl up on the horse’s back, for which Arya is more than glad, because she is honestly done being slung over Honor’s back like a sack of flour. Sitting upright on the horse will make that journey more bearable, even though the young thief who has just been exposed will by no means let that bit of pity get the better of her.

But there is a time for everything, and now is the time for a bit of silence, letting only the winds speak and whisper as they whiz through leaves, past boughs and branches to send all of the forest dancing, sets into motion that which normally lays still, and thus unites all those voices that overshadow soon enough the silence between the two people on the horse, relishing the small peace hiding away in the sounds of the woods.

When Jaime gives Honor the spurs, the hawk hops off the branch to fly above the canopy again, seemingly scouting the area for him, guiding him, showing him the way, the way ahead.

 

* * *

 

As they ride on through the woods in silence, past rocks, trees, and brushes, through birds and squirrels hop and retreat to their hideouts for the night approaching with fast strides as the sky fades from teal to green and from green to vibrant shades of orange and red.

All the while, Arya still tries to wrap her head around all that has happened this day. First the escape through the secret sewers, then being hunted out of the city by Meryn Trant and his men, her almost miraculous rescue thanks to a hooded man and his curious hawk, being carried away by the stranger, into woods Arya doesn’t know, and then being discovered as who she really is when Arya had grown accustomed to being called Mouse, being called Arry, or rather being Arry. She almost forgot what it’s like to hear her name, to be addressed as the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark, a child of the North whose sigil used to be the direwolf of House Stark.

And yet, she knows almost nothing about the man who discovered one of her most guarded secret by simply seeing her for who she is, because he does not give away his identity, which may be what unites them against all odds, because that is what thieves do.

As night draws closer, Arya can sense the man growing increasingly restless, which adds to the young girl’s irritation.

_What is there to be scared about? The night?_

That man just single-handedly fought more than a dozen members of the goldcloaks and the Queensguard. However, Arya thinks better of it than calling him upon it. There is a hardness to Jaime’s features now that tells the child that this is the time to stay quiet – and rather save the effort for when she has to fight back with more urgency.

Eventually, a small cottage comes into sight, sitting right in the middle of a small valley, far off the usual paths, which is almost a surreal sight for Arya, who thought that those woods were the lands of the beast and not of men, but then again, after seeing Jaime with his bird, those lines seem to increasingly blur anyway.

Jaime rides up to the small cottage with thatched roof, swiftly dismounting the steed.

“Stay here,” he says as he stuffs the reins into Arya’s hands.

“And what if I just take your horse and ride off with it?” the girl taunts him.

“Oh, by all means, give it a try,” Jaime laughs before walking away. “I am _dying_ to see that _spectacle_!”

Arya narrows her eyes before tapping her heels against the white stallion, though the horse makes no attempt of moving _whatsoever_.

“Come on, Honor, you will get carrots from me if you take me away, hm? Lots of carrots,” Arya bargains, stroking the horse’s mane, but the stallion remains unmoving, its dark eyes only ever focused on its actual rider.

“Damn you. You seem to bear your name for good reason,” Arya grumbles, sitting back up. “Honor past the point of sense.”

Jaime makes towards the cottage and knocks on the wooden door three times. An old woman with wrinkles and warts on her nose opens the door slightly ajar, narrowing her milky eyes at the tall man before her.

“What do you want?” she spats.

“We are travelers who got lost in the woods, and would thence ask hospitality for the night,” Jaime answers, offering a charming smile.

“Well, I ain’t got no food no more to spare, and I’m all alone here, so I’d be a fool to just let some stranger into my home. I’m an old woman who’s got to see about herself, ye see,” she argues.

“Oh, you wouldn’t mean to deny us guest right, would you? You know how sinful that is in the eyes of the Seven, good woman,” Jaime argues in a good-natured voice, knowing very well that you don’t convince frightened people by giving them even more of a scare.

“I ain’t got no place for no one in the house, I’m tellin’ ye,” the old woman insists stubbornly.

“And I am not asking for a place by your hearth. You do well to guard yourself against strangers coming up to your home, in times such as these. And yet, I think I can spot a small shed over there, filled with hay that would suffice for my sweet if boyish niece, my horse, and myself. We have food for ourselves, so you need not spare anything for us. We just need a place to stay the night, good woman.”

“I don’t know…,” she sighs, her voice trailing off, but that is when Jaime reaches into his pocket, to take out a bright shining silver coin to present to her with the most charming smile he can bring himself to. “But maybe the stag can convince you?”

The woman snaps the coin from his hand, bites down on it with the few teeth she still has in her mouth.

“Ye can use the shed, but no fire near the hay,” she says at last. “I can’t have it all go up in flames. I got too little of it already. Ye can make one in the stone circle over there if ye liked, but if I catch ye making fire in my shed, I’ll clobber ye with my broom. Ye can pull up water from the well if ye have the need, but that ain’t none of my business.”

“Most kind of you, good woman. The Seven will bless you for your hospitality most certainly,” Jaime says with a grin.

“Ha, not according to what the septons now preach,” the old woman scoffs. “And that even though that used to be part of their holy teachin’, think about it.”

“I suppose that is what you call _blind_ faith, then,” Jaime sighs wearily, looking around. “Do the septons come here often?”

“Oh, they don’t come here, thank the Seven for it. I wouldn’t want to have ‘em preach to my cow and the chickens. The Faith Militant, though? They’re reaching further and further these days,” the old woman says, waving her bony hand in the air dismissively.

“As I said, blind faith,” Jaime comments.

“Ain’t that true?”

“But in any case… I don’t mean to disturb you any longer. Thank you for your kindness,” he says, nodding his head before walking back up to Arya and the horse.

“Your _niece_?” Arya comments once he comes back to them.

“I thought that playing you off as my daughter would have been too obviously untrue,” Jaime snorts. “You don’t have the hair for it.”

He leads Honor over to the stable, whereas Arya trots beside the two.

“You have an obedient horse,” she comments. “Wouldn’t move at all.”

“What did I tell you?” Jaime laughs.

“Maybe it’s just bloody well stupid,” she snorts, but when Honor turns around towards her, Arya holds up her hands in defense. “Sorry, that was unkind.”

They open the moss-covered door, well, if you can call it that, because it’s just sporadically tacked together planks of wood.

Jaime tilts his head to the side. “Well, looks better than I feared it would.”

“And here I thought you spent so much time here already,” Arya snorts.

“In the woods yes, but near that cottage? No,” he tells her before leading Honor inside the shed.

“How did you train the horse to be that obedient?” Arya asks, flopping down on the hay, which almost feels like a feather-bed compared to the thin mattress, if you could even call it that, that Arya slept on in the black cells.

“I don’t think of him as obedient but rather loyal,” Jaime argues, brushing his fingers over the horse’s forehead. “I knew that ever since I tried to set him free, and he found back to me anyway, no matter how far I was gone by the time.”

“So no special training?” Arya asks.

“Of course. Only the very best, but loyalty is nothing you teach, you either have it or you don’t,” Jaime argues, smiling softly, and earnestly this time. “And Honor is my second most loyal companion.”

He starts to remove the bridle, then the heavy saddle, the routines seemingly deeply embedded into his body by now, as routinely as he goes about each task, no matter the place, which seems to be another thing connecting him to the girl who would rather have nothing to do with Jaime anymore, considering that he means to take her to where she does not wish to return to.

“And your most loyal companion?” Arya asks as Jaime steps a bit outside again to hang the saddle over wooden fence beside the shed. He glances up to where the hawk comes down from the sky at last, to land on the small fence right beside the saddle.

“She likes to have me believe that she will fly away, but honor compels her to stay. She is far too set on keeping those old virtues, for all the good it’s done us over the years,” he says to Arya, whereas his eyes remain locked on that of the big bird with blue feathers.

“She is _still_ a bird, you know?” Arya calls out.

“You don’t say?” Jaime sighs, chewing on his lower lip. “That is the problem in it all, isn’t it?”

He looks at the hawk.

“That you are still a bird.”

He shakes his head, but then decides to busy himself, because night is drawing close and there are still preparations that need to be taken care of. From the shed, Arya watches the man getting water, seeing about the fences, which are really no good, carrying the saddlebags out of the stable, which is the first time the girl notes a metal clinking as he puts the things down. However, what is perhaps even more curious is how the agitation inside him becomes more and more manifest. When it was a bit of urgency when they rode off before, it is now fully grown agitation that seems to catch the bird the same way.

However, that seems to make it nearly impossible for him to light the fire in the small stone circle close by the shed, as his hands keep fidgeting around. Arya finds it almost painful to watch, and feels even tempted to help the man out, but then again, Jaime seems rather annoying to her, so perhaps that is the Gods’ way of punishing him for it?

“We need more firewood,” Jaime says aloud, his frustration evident in both his gestures and his facial expression.

“You just need to learn how to make fire properly,” Arya scoffs as she walks up to him.

“The twigs here are all moist because the old woman seemingly didn’t find the strength and time to store them someplace dry,” Jaime argues.

“Or maybe you are just no good at it?” Arya teases. “Ever crossed your mind?”

“You are welcome to show me my wrongs,” he snorts, holding the flints over to her. Arya bends down to set fire, but no spark catches flame.

“You were saying?” he asks with a smirk. “We need some dry leaves and some thin twigs to light the fire. So go gather some.”

“You let me go off alone?” Arya asks, frowning.

“You can try to make your escape in the darkness, of course, but I don’t know how wise that would be. Beasts roam around here, I told you, and they prey on wolf cubs all the same. I even heard that this is their favorite meal.”

“I am no cub,” the girl laments.

“And yet no fully grown wolf either. I should be able to tell,” he huffs. “So be quick about it and stay close to camp.”

“And what are _you_ going to do?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at him.

“I will feed Honor,” Jaime answers with a smirk. “He doesn’t like to get his carrots from strangers, even less so from little girls who dared insult him.”

“Ugh,” Arya groans before walking away from the cottage to where there are leaves and twigs. Her plan _would_ have been to use such opportunity to escape into the night, to maybe head back to where they came from, and then make for the sea, but the man sadly has the rights of it – Arya has no clue where she is, and by the time morning would rise, she may well have her eyes scratched out by some mountain lion or wolf, and Arya can’t afford that if she wants to make it to Braavos at some point.

Thus, it may be for the best to wait until Jaime brought her to the outskirt of the woods, or some other part that she recognizes. Until then, Arya will have to wait, will have to be patient, as it appears.

And so, she goes on to gather thin twigs and dry leaves so that, at last, that annoying man who seems to like animals much more than humans can make a fire to keep them warm for the night.

 

* * *

 

Jaime meanwhile, made back for the small fence by which he set up the saddlebag to take out an apple, which he carries back to the stable to feed to Honor, who readily feeds on the sweet treat.

It’s those small routines that give him reassurance during times of turmoil, which is why Jaime is set on upholding them.

“You did well today,” Jaime says, clapping the horse on the side as it goes on to nibble the apple held up to it. “For a moment I feared that you would take a liking to the girl and forget your lessons after all. But then again, you bear the name meant to mirror your temperament, right?”

The horse whinnies once, nuzzling against Jaime’s chest once before going back to munching the apple, finishing up the last bit. Jaime chuckles softly as he wipes his hand against his leather breeches, before he goes on to pour some fodder on the ground for Honor to have more to feast on for the night.

Those are the constants in life, they are now. No more places, no more spaces, just a constant travel, hooked upon routines to somehow keep him from going mad.

“If you keep behaving yourself tonight, there may be more apples in for you, just so that you remember,” Jaime tells the horse. “But bear in mind that you are supposed to stay in the shed, yes? And while you are at it, you may want to have an eye on the girl for me. _If_ she ever gets back…”

Jaime lets out a sigh as he exits the stable again, not liking the thought, let alone the disturbance in his routines, his plans, that this thought turning out true may cause. Jaime looks around, lets his gaze wander over trees and brushes which turn blacker by the minute as light keeps fading away. Maybe he should have gone off in her stead. However, there is not much time left to ponder the matter, Jaime is aware, because it’s only a matter of time until the last light of the day will fade from the sky to leave nothing but the moon to keep the world from falling into darkness, destroying all routines, all that is steady, all that keeps him hooked in this world, to toss him into the next.

Sighing, Jaime makes towards the saddlebags, then, to take out what he wouldn’t want the little girl to ask too many questions about. She seems rather nosy after all. He bends down to open the bags, allowing his fingers to brush against something almost painfully familiar. He gives a light tug and the neatly folded up blue bundle comes out. Jaime lets his fingers travel over the surface of the cloth, the ridges of where leather was stitched into the material to make it sturdier. He had seen to that back when he had the quilted tunic made in a small town by Duskendale. Jaime then takes out the other thing that he had made in the small town near Duskendale, though for that, he paid no coin to a seamstress, but a smith instead.

Jaime looks up to see the hawk sitting on the small fence, watching him all the while.

“So? Where do you think should I put it? On the roof?” he asks the bird, which only shrieks at him in reply, seemingly not agreeing with his choice at all.

“Then where else? You also have to make suggestions, you know?” Jaime laughs, trying to get lost in the one routine that he can’t do without.

The hawk spreads its wings at that, to take flight to a tree nearby, on one of the branches.

“Ha, just like back by Saltpans. Good thinking!” he chuckles before grabbing a rope to hook the painfully familiar items upon, and then once under the tree, toss one end of the rope over the branch and then pull the bundle up, all under the watchful eye of the hawk. “One can always count on you in that regard.”

Once the bundle dangles up by the tree, Jaime rams a bigger twig into the ground to knot the rope to. He gets back up, looking satisfied with his work.

“So, now that this is done… and the girl has not yet returned, do you think it’s wise to go after her?” Jaime asks the hawk, but the bird only ever caws at him in reply, fluttering its majestic wings.

“Good point,” Jaime says, nodding his head, glancing up to the sky. “We seem to have run out of time. But oh well, if the girl can be believed, she got out of the black cells in King’s Landing, so these woods should hardly pose a challenge.”

Jaime walks back to put the saddlebags back into the shed and closes the door before climbing out of the valley towards the end opposite to where Arya went.

“I will see you in the morning,” he says to the bird, before turning around and walking away, muttering to himself alone, “Yet another night of just a goodbye but no hello.”

And that is one of those routines he would die for to do without again.

 

* * *

 

Elsewhere in the woods, Arya, with twigs and dry leaves in hand, looks around in utter confusion. She normally prides herself having a good sense of direction even in the dark, because those were Syrio’s teachings that she made such sacrifice for to learn, only for it all to go horribly bad. And yet, the young girl can’t seem to find the cottage anymore. Every tree looks the same in the dark.

Arya curses to herself as she tries to retrace her own tracks. If she continues at this rate, she won’t make back before the new day rises, and Jaime will probably tie her up in a bundle, believing that she meant to escape him.

Not that Arya doesn’t want to escape, but on this occasion, the girl earnestly meant to delay it to another time, which means she is not very pleased with the idea that she may receive punishment for that accidental escape.

A noise cutting through the darkness like a silver blade grabs Arya’s attention, and the noises… they come closer.

_Maybe Jaime was right about the wolves after all…_

Arya gently lowers the rustling leaves and twigs to the ground, knowing that if she wants to have any chance at a swift escape, she will not make it making such loud noise with every step she takes. Once she has straightened back up again, Arya simply starts running, running as fast as her feet can carry her, not caring to where she goes, so long it is away from the noises, away from the danger she may not be able to see, but that she can fear crawling up her skin, all the way to her heart.

After running to the point that she is breathless and can hear her own heart rushing in her ears, Arya is surprised to see light at last, and the cottage comes back into sight.

 _Thank the Gods_ , she thinks to herself, though Arya is irritated at three torches joining the light coming from the cottage that weren’t there by the time that she went off to gather twigs and leaves for a fire that will likely never come to be lit. Arya sneaks closer to the house, making as little noise as she can, until she can see who is holding the torches – three men with the seven-pointed star carved into their foreheads.

_The Faith Militant._

Arya tried her best to stay clear of them, because they are dangerous people, driven by their faith and the belief that everyone is evil, that everyone is made of sin, and that only by giving themselves – and everyone else – over to the Seven, there may be salvation. And Arya does not want to believe in such teachings, even less so in such preachers.

 _But what are they doing here in the woods? They can’t mean to come for me, can they_? Arya thinks to herself. _Though maybe they are here for Jaime…_

The young girl comes closer, letting Syrio’s words guide her steps, all the while recounting: _Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Quick as a snake. Strong as a bear. Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow…_

“Have you granted refuge to a stranger, woman?” she can hear one of the brothers clad in black ask as she takes refuge behind the small cottage. Arya can spot the old woman standing outside, holding on to the doorframe with her bony fingers, reminding her for a moment of the statues of the Crone that she saw some many times around the capitol with her little lamp in hand.

“What if I did?” the old woman asks.

“Then you must know that this man is searched by the Crown and that you commit treason by hiding him,” the leader of the group says, arms folded in his sleeves, looking even grimmer in the light of the torches that make his features even darker than they likely are by daylight.

In contrast to the old woman, they have nothing of the Seven in Arya’s opinion, however, not a single trace of the idols they are willing to murder for.

“Isn’t everyone searched by the damn Crown when even the Faith is tryin’ to enforce its laws in the Crown’s name?” the old woman scoffs.

“You would do better to hold your tongue, old woman,” the man snarls.

“What? Will ye force me to walk the streets naked if I ain’t? Like you folks do with all ‘em girls and boys and men and women ye think can only be forgiven if they accept humiliation for their sins to be repented? Cos let me tell ye, _good brother_ , ye and your folks would likely suffer more for the sight than I would. I don’t think ye want to see what’s under my skirts, now do ye?” the old woman laughs throatily.

Brave she is, Arya has to give her much, but the young girl learned already in the city that bravery is a dangerous thing these days, because many brothers of the Faith seem to mistake it for sin, when it shouldn’t ever be considered such.

“We can also have your family taken into custody, thrown into the black cells, disown you and make this cottage with all of its lands property to the Crown,” the brother taunts her.

“And ain’t it already the Crown’s?” the woman scoffs. “All we harvest, all we grow, it’s what the dear Queen sits upon with Your Grace’s royal ass.”

“Enough! You either show us to where you led the man, or we will burn down your house to the very foundation,” the man says, drawing closer. The old woman takes a step back, looking at the younger man with a star on the forehead for a long moment, but then shakes her head with a sigh, looking on sadly. “Follow me, then. _Good_ brothers.”

She slowly hobbles over to the stable and opens the door, but to all their surprise, the shed is empty.

“See, no man here,” the woman laughs drily, while obviously surprised, seemingly happy about the strange occurrence nevertheless. “It appears that the sins have miraculously vanished. Look at that! All gone! Ha!”

“Search the house,” the leader commands, nodding at the other two.

“What? No, that is mine house. I never let anyone inside!” the woman shouts. “And I ain’t startin’ with ye! Stay away!”

“ _You_ stay away,” the leader snarls, before simply pushing her out of his path. The old woman tumbles to the ground with a wail as the men proceed to her house.

Arya feels very tempted to leave her hideout to help the old woman, and maybe jump one of those bastards, but that is when a wolf is howling close by, calling her attention away from the cottage, the fine hairs in her neck standing up straight at the familiar, frighteningly familiar, sound.

Everyone stops in their tracks as a white wolf stand on the top of the valley, its fur shining almost golden in the moonlight, matching those two orbs that shine like honey in the darkness.

The beast rushes down into the valley, then, its feet moving silently, but so fast that there is no doubt that it is heading straight to the people by the cottage, its claws digging into the moist earth, barely making a sound as its claws brush over the leaves, a silent predator, out for prey.

One of the Faith Militant steps forward and stops by the well, holding his torch in front of himself to fend off the wild animal, make it scared, make it retreat, but the wolf seems unimpressed as it draws closer with a snarl. The man starts to wave the torch around, then, and that seems to set the beast over the edge: Bending its mighty legs once, it uses the momentum to jump the brother, sinking its sharp teeth into the flesh of the man’s arm. The brother lets a cry of agony as the torch falls from his grasp, right down the well.

“Kill that beast!” the leader calls out, urging his remaining brother to charge with the fire, which seems to frighten the wolf well enough, but the beast does not retreat completely, but instead starts to encircle them.

Arya is quick on her feet to get out of her hideout to rush over to the old woman and helps her up.

“Be quiet and get back into the house,” Arya tells the older woman, who looks at her, still taken aback by everything happening around her.

“What about you?” she asks.

“I would rather not have them see me,” the girl answers, looking around nervously.

Arya has no idea just yet what the Faith Militant would want with them, so it might be best to remain hidden for now.

“Go on the perch over there,” the old woman tells Arya, giving her shoulders a light squeeze. “You should be safe from the beast up there.”

“Thank you – and sorry for this here,” the girl says, gesturing around.

“Oh, fret not. I do enjoy seein’ some of’em false priests fallin’ victim to the nature they’re so desperate to deny its existence,” the old woman huffs before scrambling over to the small cottage and locking all doors as fast as her old bones let her.

Arya rushes up the ladder leading to the mossy, wooden perch that slightly leans to the right. The young girl is surprised to find bow and arrow there, though she reckons that one of the old woman’s sons may be using it to fend off strangers, if they weren’t gone to wherever it may be. While Syrio never taught her the arts of archery, Arya reckons it is still better than nothing.

 _Boy, girl, you are a sword, that is all_. That is what Syrio used to teach her, so maybe she can be that arrow and that bow, too. The girl won’t know unless she tries it out.

Arya takes an arrow from the quiver and adjusts her grip on the bow, while watching as the mighty wolf keeps encircling and striking at the men, nature itself coming upon those who mean to enforce its prohibition.

The dark-haired girl can’t help but grin as she sees the leader of the Faith Militant getting bitten in the ankle and dragged across the moist leaves so that his torch goes out, wailing like a small girl at the bite. The other man pulls him back by the shoulders, thereby also dropping his torch into the moist leaves, which thankfully don’t catch flame.

“Retreat! Retreat!” the man shrieks, eyes wide, heart pounding, as afraid as those people are that the Faith Militant normally chases down the streets to shame them, to make them “atone” for their sins.

_Serves them right._

They make for the cottage, but the old woman long since barred all doors and windows.

“You have forgone your guest right!” they can hear her call out from inside.

_And that serves them right as well._

The three men, knowing that they have no other means, simply start to make a run for it, for their own lives, and apparently, not for the Faith they mean to enforce, no matter the sacrifice.

The wolf looks after them, but then goes around the camp, sniffing all around, seemingly looking for something to eat after the brothers proved rather resistant and tough to chew on.

Cold fear clutches at Arya when the animal starts to circle closer to the perch. While this one of the animals that once represented her home, her family, Arya knows this is about survival, about staying alive or dying. If the wolf means to eat her, she will have to be a wolf, too, and win that fight.

The streets have taught her that lesson, it’s something she also carries in her heart ever since she left the city, deep inside her heart, a wild beast that thinks of itself first, forgets all pity, all family, all burned bridges, and leaves nothing but the sheer will behind to stay alive, to keep going, to keep seeing.

She takes up the bow and means to shoot the wolf roaming closer and closer to the perch, but suddenly, someone grabs Arya from behind, keeping a firm grip on the arrow that she almost would have sent flying. Arya kicks out and tries to wrestle free from the person holding on to her as though the arms were iron and steel alone.

Arya better should have checked the back, she realizes so now, because apparently, there is another small door there, as she can upon turning her head slightly around. The young girl watches with eyes wide open as the person holding her slaps the bow and arrow from her hands, to the ground below.

“No!” Arya shrieks.

_That was my way of protecting myself! That was my sword for the night! After I lost mine…_

"I will kill you if you dare shoot," the person behind her hisses, a woman’s voice, Arya realizes, but nonetheless intimidating. Arya cranes her neck to look back a bit further, surprised to find herself grabbed by a tall-standing, mannish woman with blonde, short-cropped hair, wearing breeches, quilted tunic, and a blue cape covering what looks like part of a chestplate. Though none is as captivating as the big blue eyes with which she stares at the young girl in her iron grip.

"But there's a wolf!” Arya insists.

"I know," the mannish woman replies, glancing ahead to where the wolf keeps running its circles around the small property at the heart of the woods, following every silent step of the beast with golden eyes. However, she then calls her attention back to the girl in her grasp, her voice somewhat softening as she continues, “You didn’t make a fire in the fireplace, did you?”

She lets go of her, then. Arya turns around to look at the stranger woman. The young girl is certain that she has never seen her before, because that lady in what rather looks like men’s clothing is rather singular, hard to forget once you have seen her once. And yet, Arya can’t deny herself an uncanny feeling of familiarity for a woman she only ever looked up for the first time tonight.

“No. I got lost in the woods. By that time, the men were going for the poor old woman, until the wolf came and chased them away,” Arya answers, still trying to bring order to her mind where winds and wolves left nothing but chaos for now.

“Well, considering the situation, it may have been a fortune that you did not light the fire,” the woman tells her. “Or else the wolf would have kept away from the flames.”

“Fortune? There’s a wolf about to eat us.”

“And before that, there were three men about to burn down a woman’s house, which the wolf prevented from happening, even though that meant getting close to the flames that he despises,” the tall woman argues, her big blue eyes focused on the wolf that keeps pacing, which has Arya think for only just a moment that it almost seems as though the wolf is not out for something to eat, but actually waits for someone to come to him, someone to guide him the way.

“Well, the torches are out, and the granny won’t come out until the wolf is gone for sure,” Arya argues. “And he looks hungry.”

“Not hungry, no,” the woman argues, paying no mind to the girl behind her at all. “Not for food at least. He is hungry for quite another diet.”

“Which would be?” Arya frowns.

_And how would she know anyway?_

“Hungry for direction,” the woman whispers. “For something familiar to hold on to.”

“What are you talking about?” Arya asks, but the woman is seemingly not keen on answering the many questions the young girl has on her mind right at this moment.

“Let me handle this,” the stranger woman then says, making towards the ladder leading down to the front, to where the wolf is walking its circles in search of something that he can’t seem to find, no matter how hard he looks, how much he sniffs, how much he tries.

The blonde woman looks back at Arya one more time while still on the ladder. “Stay here. And don’t come out before morning rises.”

“But…,” Arya means to object, but the tall-standing woman is quick enough to interrupt the girl before she can finish, “That is an order, no request. I cannot guarantee for your safety if you roam around the wolf. The men are taken care of. The old woman is safe for now. The wolf will not come near the perch, I promise you. Let me take care of the rest. Just… _stay_.”

With that, the woman jumps down the rest of the ladder, landing on the leaves far swifter than could be estimated, judging by the woman’s stature alone. There is a harsh sort of elegance to her walk as she gets up and makes the first cautious steps forward. The wolf perks its ears the moment her boots brush over the moist leaves.

His golden eyes lock with her blue ones, and at that moment, the whole forest seems to pause, inhale, holds its breath. No wind blows, no owl hoots, no crow caws in the distance. For that one moment in time, there seems to be just the two of them allowed movement, movement forward.

Towards each other.

Arya scrambles to the front of the perch on all fours, shocked to see as the woman walks right up the beast, and that without any sort of weaponry on her, the bow and arrow still lying on the leaves, untouched.

_That beast is going to rip her to shreds!_

However… it doesn’t, as Arya has to realize as her eyes keep sing what she never thought she would see in a lifetime. Arya watches in shock and fascination as the woman gets down on one knee before the wolf. And it is then that the beast stops pacing, its movements coming to a halt as well, as though her mere presence put the animal’s mind to ease, to rest.

The woman with the blue cloak tentatively holds out her hand to the creature in what seems to be a ritual between them, a thing of familiarity that only unfolds when they touch. The wolf sniffs her hand and then stops moving entirely, in fact, so Arya has to realize, he is waiting.

Waiting for her.

Arya’s eyes keep open wide as the woman gets back up and starts to walk, and the wolf follows her on the heel, as though she was his master and he was her pet wolf. Together, they start to climb out of the valley, and while Arya cannot hear all of that the tall woman speaks, she can hear that one thing:

“You got yourself into trouble yet again, didn’t you? You know about the fire. It’s needed in time,” she scolds the wolf, who only ever tilts his head at her in reply. "Oh, now don't look at me so innocently. That doesn't work on me and you know it. We are both aware that you mean nothing but trouble instead. You can count yourself lucky that I was there to intervene. Or else you wouldn’t be able to keep your promise.”

The woman goes on talking to the animal as they disappear behind the trees painted black as light shines on the other side of the canopy, leaving nothing but the shadows for the other side, swallowing all light, leaving nothing but edges of black at the horizon. And as they go, it look as though she was talking to an old friend, a familiar soul she hasn’t seen in years and has more stories to tell than there is time for it.

Arya watches on, disbelieving, heart pounding, mind shouting, begging for answers that just won’t come to her.

Just what happened here?

_Just what did I see?_

The young girl remains alert for quite a while longer, fearing for the wolf or the men of the Faith to return, but all turned quiet in the woods after the woman and her wolf took their leave. An owl hoots somewhere, some crickets chirrup in Western direction, but other than that, the woods seems to have left the turmoil behind, in favor of the quiet winds blowing, whistling, whispering, until all voices ebb into a quiet lullaby, so that, at last, huddled up in the perch, Arya finds herself drifting away from the questions, closes her eyes, having seen enough for a day.

She keeps drifting until she finds herself in another forest, where white snow is falling and where red leaves rustle in the soft breeze, she keeps drifting into a dream of a place long since forgotten, long since out of her reach, and nonetheless right inside her heart, no matter how far that place is, no matter how blurry by the edges.

And so, Arya just listens to familiar winds howling, leaving the questions of the lady and the wolf for the next day.


	3. Thieves, Sparrows, and Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Jaime continue their journey, even though the girl grows more and more displeased with the ideas her travel companion has in mind in terms of their destination. 
> 
> As night falls, Arya is bound to make some many choices, not all of which are pleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thanks for keeping around and kudoing and commenting. It makes me so happy!
> 
> So yeah, this chapter is a bit longer, but I didn't think it fitted in two parts, so I rather ran with a long chapter.
> 
> Yet again, I made lots of shredding changes to the Ladyhawke movie, whereby I shift Jaime's motivations regarding Arya somewhat, while at the same time our mystery woman gets a bit more action than we see in the original. 
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy.
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

Arya wakes up to the sound of horse hooves pawing on the forest ground. The girl opens her eyes slowly, allowing her eyes to adjust to the apparent brightness of the next day that rose without her knowing of it until now. With a groan, Arya sits up, leaning back on her elbows.

 _And what a night that was_ , she thinks to herself, rubbing her hand across her face.

The Faith Militant, a wolf, and then a mysterious woman wearing chestplate, breeches, and a blue hood – and all that within a single night? Arya tends to think that her life got much busier than it proved to be for all the time she spent inside King’s Landing, as though something was set into motion without her knowledge, leaving her to run from one avalanche chasing the next.

A horse whinnying has the girl’s attention back on the present, so she crawls to the front of the perch and opens the crooked wooden door, surprised to see Jaime riding Honor over to where she peeks her head out of the wooden construction, looking his usual self, after such a night.

“Good morning to you,” he says, waving at her, as though nothing happened. And that is something that has Arya furious almost instantly. In the wake of the horrors of last night, she almost forgot that the man was gone from the shed when the Faith Militant tried to search the old woman’s property, but now she remembers that Jaime made quite big promises – and as of now, she can only attest to that he held on to it when he saved her outside the Iron Gate, but the older man failed quite miserably by this small cottage in her opinion.

“And where have _you_ bastard been all night long?” Arya questions, making her discontent no secret as she swings her short legs out of the perch and onto the ladder. “We were all in big trouble thanks to you, and you were nowhere to be found.”

The young girl climbs down the rest of the ladder, hopping off the last two rungs. She gives Jaime a misgiving look, but then her gaze falls on the abandoned bow and arrow in the leaves, untouched, which has her remember how that mysterious woman brought a beast to reason with just a glance, a single touch. And that even though the woman seemed to be made of the kind of stuff that knows how to break a beast’s neck with bare hands instead of tenderly stroking it as they made out of the valley, to wherever they have gone thereafter.

“You didn’t return from collecting firewood, so I went looking for you,” Jaime answers.

“Well, I was here, so small wonder you didn’t find me in the woods,” she scoffs, crossing her arms over her flat chest.

“Well, I didn’t know that by the time I went off after you, because the little wolf took its time,” Jaime retorts. “And in any case, is it really my fault when you, the great thief Mouse, who escapes inescapable black cells for a living, can’t seem to keep within reach of a camp like most children should be able to do it at your age?”

Arya narrows her eyes at the older man sitting on the horse’s back, probably feeling very smart about himself. “None of that would have happened, had you been able to make fire.”

“A task you also failed to do,” he points out to her with that snarky smile Arya already learned to hate within the short amount of time she spent with the man. 

“Well, but you are the adult! That’s your job,” she scoffs.

“And here I thought I was to treat you… not as a child,” Jaime snorts, tilting his head to the side. “You know, you have to choose at some point. You can’t have it both ways.”

“And you aren’t supposed to treat me like a child,” Arya spats. “I just think you should own up to having screwed up last night. Do you have any idea what went on here?”

“No, I just came back here once the sun rose,” Jaime answers, looking around.

“Well, then I may tell you that men of the Faith Militant came all the way to here – and they were looking for you,” Arya declares. She is fairly certain that the man is hiding something from her, but as she watches his reaction to those news, the young girl is perfectly convinced that she can spot honest shock in Jaime’s eyes.

So he really didn’t see any of this? Didn’t hear any of it? Didn’t hear the wolf howl? Didn’t catch sight of the freakish tall woman walking beside the beast?

_Just how far did he go to find me in the woods, if that is what he did indeed?_

“Faith Militant?” Jaime asks, blinking. “Where are they now?”

“I don’t know,” Arya answers, waving with the back of her hand dismissively. “They are gone now. Haven’t you heard them?”

“No, they must have taken another passage than mine,” Jaime answers, and yet again, Arya has the feeling that he is perfectly earnest while at the same time she can’t help but wonder how it is possible for a man who can identify the long-lost daughter of Lord Eddard Stark by just taking a good look at her, but fails to hear three men shrieking like little girls.

“Is the old woman alright?” Jaime goes on to ask, pulling Arya back to him.

“I think so,” she answers quickly. “One pushed her away to try to search the house, but then…”

She doesn’t get to finish, as Jaime already dismounts the horse and quickly makes for the cottage. Once there, he knocks against the wooden door a few times, determinedly but as softly as possible, so not to frighten the woman any further.

 _This is no good_ , Jaime thinks to himself as he waits for movement, for a sign of life from the other side. _I am done dragging people into our affairs, sick and tired of it._

“Good woman! Good woman! It’s your guest from last night. Would you be so kind to open up?” he calls out, listening carefully for any noise from the inside. And at last, Jaime can take in furniture being moved over the wooden floor, then some clinking of metal, supposedly the lock, and that is when the old woman from last night opens her door. She still looks a bit distressed, her topknot on her head a bit of a mess, dark circles under her wrinkly eyes, but not beaten, not severely hurt.

 _Thank the Gods_ , Jaime thinks to himself, but then thinks better of that – because the Gods have nothing to do with that, he knows that by now. Unless the Seven are evil creatures residing in the heavens which are causing nothing but mischief, Jaime stopped accounting greatness to come from the Gods. For that, too much has happened, to the good people, those who bore no sin, but were said to be, and the Gods stood idly by and did nothing. 

_If the Gods are true and if the Gods are just, then how comes the world is so full of injustice?_

“Ah, my mysterious guest’s resurfaced,” the woman says, surprising Jaime with a grin he didn’t think would be coming from the woman after the seeming terror of last night that he could not prevent, having wandered off into the woods.

“My niece just told me that you ran trouble last night, because of me?” he asks with a grimace.

“They were lookin’ for ye, the Faith. That’s true. But I reckon they’re lookin’ for everyone, for all them sinners, or what they think are sinners. Gods know I lost track of what they think us folks is doin’ all wrong,” the woman comments, shaking her head slowly. “So perchance ta ain’t on ye, even. They could’ve been lookin’ for me all the same, to collect the dear Queen’s taxes, even if we ain’t got no nothing to give anymore.”

“My apologies for that. It was not my intention to drag you into my own… affairs,” Jaime says with a grimace. He had hoped that this cottage was far enough away, right at the heart of the woods, but far from it, it seems.

The false preachers, they loom behind every corner.

And what is perhaps even more frightening, much more chilling, is the realization that the men of the Faith either were granted or took for themselves more leash, reaching further into the country – in search for him.

_And all that because of what happened by the city gates._

“Oh, fret not, the bastards sitting on the mighty chairs in King’s Landing, making’em rules? They’re all ‘bout making their affairs ours. My own son’s rottin’ in the black cells for takin’ his time in a brothel there. The man’s a widower in _years_ now. Was devoted to his wife till she took her last breath. A bit slow, but a good man, I should know, I raised the boy. And now that I grew old and sick, he’s seen after me, which left him no time to go lookin’ for a new bride just yet. Some visits to the brothels, and they think he deserves punishment for answerin’ the natural need. Aye, all rotten apples in the capitol, rotten to the core.”

“Most definitely,” Jaime agrees. “I do hope your son will walk free soon.”

“He better. He’s the one who normally shoots down ‘em strangers comin’ to my house,” she huffs. “He’s a bit of a good-for-nothin’ in many ways, but good enough at the bow to keep the scum away from here.”

“Again, I apologize for what happened to you. I suppose much could have been bypassed, had I been around,” Jaime apologizes.

“Who’s to tell?” the old woman argues, shrugging her hunched shoulders. “Y’know, I tend to think that nothin’ much’s achieved by pondering a past that ain’t happenin’ no more. My son ain’t comin’ out of the black cells just cos I think about how he could not have gone to them whores for a bit of a feel. They’re gone now, that’s what matters. He’s in the black cells now, that’s the problem. On my old days, I find no good in ponderin’ all that could’ve been but won’t ever be. I ain’t got no time for that.”

Jaime offers a small smirk, before reaching into his pocket, feeling that he shares in her condition to the degree that he is also aware that there is no time left.

_It has to end. All of it._

“Please accept this,” Jaime says, taking out a small bag of coins. “For your trouble.”

The old woman takes the leather bag from him, her bony fingers quickly working on the knot to take a look inside, only to glance back at the younger man in almost shock, “That… that’s enough to pay the bail, twice.”

“Then perchance this coin will be put to good use after all,” Jaime says. “To change the present, not the past.”

“But it’s curious, ain’t it? That them Faith folks even _have_ a bail on such oh so _unforgivable_ sin?” the woman asks with a sad smile. “They say my fool of a son defiled the Gods with his actions, for getting a kiss and a feel, and yet, a bit of money can wash him free of it.”

“Well, that’s what happens when the Crown is indebted,” Jaime scoffs. “And if the Crown sits the throne alongside the Faith.”

That is what happens when two natural forces join and leave no room between them, with the one goal in mind – to have power.

It’s always about power, the hunger for it, the thirst, even if that gives them only more rotten apples.

“Oh, is the Crown in debt?” the woman croons almost gleefully upon hearing that, which has Jaime chuckle back, “Very much.”

 _But not just in money they are irrevocably indebted_ , he adds only to himself. _The Crown owes so much more than coin can pay for. It’s lives they owe – and I will collect the debt one of these days._

“Hm. Well, then I suppose I’ll use that coin to help the oh so desperate Crown pay off its debt,” the woman chuckles softly. “And thereby get my foolish son out of prison. I should see to it that he gets wed again before I finally bite the ground. I can’t have him rot in a prison cell while I’m pushin’em daisies. Someone’s got to see after my house.”

“Then the money is put to good use,” Jaime tells her, offering a gentle smile. “And you are a good, upstanding citizen for helping the poor Crown that way, good woman.”

“Oh, now don’t insult me!” the old woman laughs throatily.

“I wouldn’t ever dare,” Jaime chuckles softly. “Well, I suppose we have to be on our way. Thanks another time. And sorry for the trouble once more.”

The old woman nods her head silently, an agreement that they owe each other nothing beyond the night left unspoken but nonetheless palpable, before heading back inside her little house in the midst of the woods, where no one should find her, and yet, the Faith finds her anyway, like it finds everyone, no matter how well they are at hiding.

Jaime glances up when he turns around, his hawk flying above him in the sky, screeching loudly once, only to disappear above the crown of a mighty oak.

It’s high time that they leave, and for now, they have to get as far away from the city as they can. Once the Stark girl is safely where Jaime wants to see her off to, he can return to his plans, his promises, which are the one driving force for him.

He makes back to where Arya is standing, arms still crossed over her chest, eyeing him with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

“Where are we going now?” she asks.

“Heading to where I can rid myself of you,” he says with a smirk. “I told you often enough that I have no use for you beyond that.”

“Well, and where is that _miraculous_ place you mean to see me off to?” she asks, narrowing her brown eyes at the tall-standing man.

“A two day’s march, maybe three, depending on how swift our travel is, or how much you will mean to disobey me, roughly in this direction,” Jaime answers pointing ahead.

“And what will be after you dropped me off for my own good?” Arya questions.

“As if I would tell you that,” he snorts, before lifting her on the horse’s back and saddling up behind her.

“As if that was such a grand secret to hide. I bet it’s something totally trivial. Folks like to make big speeches about all that they still want to do, but in the end… nothing much comes of it,” Arya taunts him, but Jaime seems unimpressed, only ever takes a hold of the reins to signal Honor to move ahead.

Slowly but steadily, the steed moves out of the valley, and it doesn’t take them long until the cottage disappears behind the wall of trees now lying behind them. Arya focuses her attention on the way ahead once the house is out of sight, though her thoughts remain tightly linked to the thatched roofed lodge, the brothers with the torches, the wolf, and the lady who led the beast away before it could devour anyone.

“And you saw _really_ nothing?” Arya asks after a while of silently riding through the forest, over stones, pebbles, small puddles shining blue as they reflect the sky above, and molehills breaking out of the soft soil every now and then. “Like… nothing at all?”

“No” Jaime answers simply.

“Just how deeply asleep can you have been not to hear any of this?” Arya sighs, shaking her head. “Also, just so that you know, that makes you rather useless as a prison guard.”

“Which you should consider a fortune, because that gives you at least the hope that you can escape me,” Jaime chuckles softly, his gaze, all the while, drifting to the bird flying above, pointing the way through the woods that otherwise look almost painfully familiar at every turn.

“Oh, that is only a matter of time,” Arya warns him. “I escaped the black cells. You will hardly pose a challenge.”

“Sure thing, little wolf,” Jaime snorts.

“Stop calling me that!” Arya shouts. “I almost had to kill one last night.”

She is surprised as Jaime’s gloved hands tighten around the reins, the unsettlement from last night seemingly right back in his bones.

“A wolf?” he repeats, his voice flat, as though to keep his frantic heart lowered.

“Yes, white fur, golden eyes, big and… out for blood. That thing came to the cottage last night and attacked the men of the Faith who were looking for you, only to find the shed you were supposed to be in unoccupied,” Arya tells him. “Which is something I would have told you before, had you not interrupted me to go see the old woman instead of hearing me out.”

“For that you want to fade away from the public so fast, you seem rather focused on getting much attention,” he scoffs. “But enough of that. So the wolf did what? Chase them away?”

“Yes. They were no match to the beast, bit all three of them until they ran away. That was quite a sight. _They_ are normally the ones who chase, so it was nice to have them get a taste of their own bitter medicine,” Arya replies. “However, the joy over that was rather short-lived.”

“How so?” Jaime asks.

“Well, once the wolf was finished with the brothers, he was seemingly out for something else to prey on, so he kept encircling the cottage,” Arya goes on.

“Had there been a fire, the wolf probably would have kept away, I reckon,” Jaime says quietly, not looking at her as they keep riding through the woods.

“Maybe, maybe not. For that wolves should be scared of fire, that one was rather bold to get to the brothers holding their torches,” Arya comments.

“Sometimes even wolves overcome their fright,” Jaime comments thoughtfully. “They just need the right impetus.”

“Well, it makes no difference anymore anyway,” Arya argues. “I was about to take a shot at it, with the arrow and the bow that I found up in the perch. But then something even more outrageous happened.”

The corners of his mouth twitch. “Which would be?”

“I was about to shoot the wolf, but then this stranger woman came out of nowhere and held me back. She forbade me to kill the wolf, and I tell you, she was serious.”

Arya can feel Jaime’s body growing rigid, and from the corner of her eye, she can see his eyes somewhat widening, yet, he tries his best to ask as calmly as he can, “A stranger woman, you say?”

The young girl nods her head. “She appeared out of nowhere, I didn’t see her coming until she already had me locked in her arms. Freakish strong and tall, I am telling you. At first I thought she was a man.”

“Short, blonde hair and big blue eyes?” Jaime asks, and while he tries to sound aloof, Arya doesn’t come around noticing the way his features tighten, how his face hardens, trying to maintain a grimace he otherwise would not sport right at that moment.

“How do you know that?” the girl asks.

“What did she say?” he demands to know, his voice forceful, his eyes searching something, desperately craving it, craving it now.

Arya grimaces at Jaime. “Why would I tell you?”

“I will get the truth out of you eventually. So speak now! What did she say?” he asks forcefully, and Arya can hear the edge of desperation in his voice, which contrasts so much the man who always seems to have a snarky comment and an easy smile to spare.

Just what is it with these strangers she keeps meeting? They both almost outsmart the Stranger in their mystery.

“She said to me that she would kill me if I dared to shoot the wolf. She knew the beast, that much I can tell,” Arya answers eventually. “She went down the perch, no weapon in hand, no nothing, telling me to stay there. The woman went straight up to the beast and then… she just walked away with him. And that wolf followed, as though it was the most natural thing on earth to do that, even though he’s a wild beast. And I am not making this up. This was no dream, believe me, it’s…”

“Oh, I do believe you. She is not exactly known for being very subtle," he assures her, smiling wryly. Above their heads, the hawk shrieks, before landing on Jaime’s shoulder, pecking at his cloak a few times.

“Now don’t act offended,” he snorts. “That is a plain matter of fact.”

“So you know this woman?” Arya questions.

“Yes,” Jaime answers curtly.

“Then… where is she now?” the young girl asks.

“To where no one can reach her,” Jaime says, watching as the bird hops down his arm before taking flight again, climbing high into the sky. “To where no one can hurt her.”

 

* * *

 

In a small inn on the outer rim of the city of King’s Landing, in the very back, to where normally the drunkards and mediocre people retreat to slurp their ale or bowl of soup, a man with a hood pulled over his head, sits on the bench.

He ordered neither food nor drink for himself.

He spoke only to the innkeep when he came in, but other than that, he has silently sat in his corner, hands folded on the wooden table that is still soaked from the spilled beer, wine, and food from those who sat on this bench before him.

He is waiting.

His gaze wanders up when the door opens and three brothers of the Faith, their arms and legs sporadically wrapped in linen, stride inside, or rather limp into the common hall, looking around frantically.

The silent man raises his arm only lightly, breaking out of his stasis, done waiting.

One of them spots the hooded fellow in the back, gesturing at the others to follow, and so, they make over to the table, their steps faster now, urgency written across their features.

“Seven blessings to you,” they say in unison as they reach the table.

“And to you,” the man answers, moving up from the bench to retrieve himself from the alcove otherwise reserved for those that don’t belong to the rest of the inn.

“Come with me,” he adds, gesturing at the three others to follow him. Together, they make towards a small staircase leading towards the inn’s guestrooms, his bare feet making almost no sound as they make one step after the other up the steps leading to a narrow hall. They walk towards the very end and enter the small chamber.

Once inside, the barefooted man walks to the center, the bed as well as everything untouched, as though he had never been there, and seemingly having no intention to stay for long either. He reaches to the hood and doffs the cloak hanging over his frame, revealing him to wear similar cloaks to the men of the Faith that just arrived at the inn, though his simple tunic bears a lighter color than theirs.

The High Sparrow knows better than to call unwanted attention to himself. While his face is less known around the outer rims of the city, he would not want people to start whispering. That is best reserved for the Queen.

“I assume that you were not successful in your mission, my brothers,” the septon says as he turns around to look at his loyal brothers.

“No,” the leader of the group says quickly, bowing his head. “We followed a clue we got from someone living close by the woods, just as you had instructed us. The man said that an old woman lives in a small cottage there. We reckoned that maybe he would seek refuge there.”

“But he didn’t?” the white-haired man asks.

“The woman’s said that she granted refuge to someone, but when she opened the shed, there was no one inside,” the second with his arm wrapped in layers of linen. “As of now, we tend to think that the woman may have just imagined things. She is there all alone.”

“And have you searched her house as well?” the High Sparrow asks.   

“We were about to, but we were interrupted,” the third man with the leg wound says.

The High Septon turns his head at that. “Interrupted by _whom_?”

“By a wild beast,” the leader answers, bowing his head. “We tried to fend it off, but we stood no chance.”

“A beast,” the High Sparrow repeats.

“A wolf, to be exact,” the leader confirms. “We stood no chance against the thing. It was freakish strong and out for the kill. We would have gone back in the morning, but we were meant to be here to meet you, so…”

“A wolf,” the septon reiterates yet again, as though to taste the bitter, stale flavor of the defeat he suffered not just at the hands of this beast of a man but also at his own faith, because he did not succeed to bring the man to justice the way the Seven have chosen.

 _However, now is not the time for that_ , the oldest man of the group reminds himself. That is what he ought to leave for his own mediations when he prays in the crypts below the Great Sept of Baelor where no one disturbs him with the worldly and he can fully give himself over to the holy of the Seven.

He sucks in a deep breath, before raising his arms, offering a gentle sort of smile at the young men, though there is a rigidity to his movements that wasn’t there before – and it stays.

“You did right, my brothers. It appears that I acted too rashly, sending you off all on your own,” he tells them, his voice mild and calm, like that of a father. “The Queen herself has let me know that she still needs time to consider our proposition of making us the executioners of the laws, which is why I am afraid that we will have to stay down a small while longer. Thus, it was wise to return before the Queen could send out her men to do the deed of finding the man responsible.”

_For now anyway._

“But why? I thought we wanted to finally rise to…,” the man means to ask, but the High Sparrow interrupts him rather harshly this, time, “And we _will_ rise, my brothers, we will rise like a storm, and we will wash away all sin that keeps choking mothers, father, brothers, and sisters. Yet, for now… we have to keep the tide low. We have to manage the sea, have to calm it, so that the water that has built up over the years has enough force to wash it all away. There is more urgent business, the very business I sent you out for.”

“But what of that man is…,” the leader tries once more, but the High Septon won’t let him finish, instead telling him, “That need not concern you. All that you have to know is that this wretched man has to be brought to the justice of the Seven at last. My visions could not be any clearer regarding the matter.”

The visions are clear as day to the High Sparrow, in all of their dark revelations. And he is sure that the one way to give them rise, to give them flight, is to rid themselves of that demon first.

“I see it before my eyes every night as I lay asleep,” he continues, touching the hem of his tunic, feeling an old wound reopen that has long since faded into the scarred skin of an old man. “The Gods are whispering it to me no longer, they are shouting it, screaming it, begging me to listen to them. The city keeps falling because of men the likes of him. Because of him. The Gods need to be in our favor for us to rise again, my brothers. And they won’t be in our favor unless that man is cleansed in the light of the Seven, at last answering for the crimes he committed.”

_Wrongs of the past have to be made right, so that justice can ring at last, from the tower of the Great Sept of Baelor for all of the city to hear._

“So… we just let him go?” the man asks, blinking in confusion. “Even though we ought to capture him to bring him to justice?”

“Oh, far from it, my brothers, we now know that he is still around the city, we know it now for certain, after we could only have guessed before,” the older man explains, now back to giving them a gentle sort of smile on the edge of being wicked. “That is what I wanted to know confirmed from my own most loyal brothers. We were cheated out of our position in this city once, but that shall never repeat itself again, which calls us to caution against information coming from the Crown. Thus, I wanted to know _for myself_. And you have brought me the confirmation that my weary heart needed to know it true.”

Because the High Sparrow is aware that the Queen does well at keeping some things to herself that he would rather know about. As he told her in the gardens, there is reason for caution.

“Know _what_ true?” the one with the leg wound asks, frowning.

“The visions I have had for far too long, that what they have been trying to tell me is nothing but the truth,” the older man says, his eyes widening as he speaks. “The devil is back in the city. He is walking amongst us, corrupting our brothers and sisters who are doing all within their powers to atone for their sins as dutiful servants of the Seven.”

“So… we wait. Is that what you are saying?” the leader of the group of young men questions.

“This shall be the last time that things will be in the reverse, for this is far too important a matter to let the Queen handle it by the rules made by man. On this, the Gods have to decide, and that means the Crown and the Faith will change positions on that matter. We wait for the Crown to do its part and bring us the sinner to our sept, to our realm, the realm of justice. After that, he will be _ours_ to judge, _ours_ to bring to justice. So that, at last, the Gods will return to be in our favor,” the High Sparrow tells them, yet again clutching at his tunic, finding his heart beat faster, an echo of the longing and desperation he feels at the knowledge that he failed the Seven before and that all their attempts of returning the Faith to its rightful place will turn out futile so long justice does not ring for that beast of a man.

“They were not with us before?”

“Look at the city. The Gods have abandoned us, and they will keep abandoning us so long the devils keep roaming in the capitol, causing havoc amongst us. Thus, we have to cleanse the city of that wretched demon once and for all and bring him to the justice of the Gods that he escaped from before,” he tells them, spreading out his arms lightly. “And once that is done, once he is caught and made atone for his wrongs, we will seize the chance, we will rise and tear down an empire, until nothing but the Faith remains as the one true ruler. However, now is not the time. Now is the time for caution and preparation. So we aren’t waiting, we are preparing. My brothers, we have waited for a long time, we can afford to wait a while longer.”

“And what do we do to achieve that?” the one with the arm wound questions.

“You will have your wounds properly treated by our sisters. And after that… you will continue your ways, our ways, removing sin from the city until we have the man who keeps us from bringing it to a hold. We have to keep spreading the message of our Gods. That is our duty and privilege. And in due time, the Crown will deliver us the sinner that we need in order to make the next step, the next leap. So, return to the city, return to our home, and ensure that the disease that man keeps spreading does not go far. Until we have the source of the flame, we have to keep putting out the small fires, for our people. And then… we will be the storm to end all fire.”

“Yes, of course,” the three young men say in unison, bowing their heads, believing every word he speaks, every thought he shares with them.

“Then be on your way, my brothers,” he says, patting each on the shoulder once. “May Seven be with you.”

“And with you.”

And with that, the three men retreat from the room.

The High Sparrow takes another moment for himself and walks over to the small window from which he can see the other rim of the woods in the distance. His hands travel to his throat, feeling the familiar pain rushing through his body.

_It is only a matter of time._

And then this beast of a man will pay for that which he has done.

He will pay the price for refusing the hand offered to him to show him the way back to righteousness, out of the pits of the Seven Hells, out of the pits fed by sin and badness.

And once that is done, of that the High Sparrow is certain, the Gods will be their strong arm, their mighty shield, their sharp sword, and they will cut across the country with it, because the Gods will want it so, they will want them to win at last, to be the storm that changes the world that they know and return it to the Seven who blew life into it.

However, the Gods will not extend their hands to their loyal servants of the Faith until that one thing is achieved, the High Sparrow knows it for sure. He saw it in his dreams too often to the count to keep ignoring the signs. The Gods will not make a storm out of them until they have brought the beast of man to reason, or to an end, whichever it may be.

Until then, they will prepare, they will keep praying, speaking the words the Seven proclaim, so that the Gods’ justice will ring alongside the bell in the towers of the Great Sept of Baelor to announce the upcoming storm.

And the High Sparrow himself hopes not just that this will give rise to their grand mission to finally fulfill itself, but also that the nightmares, at last, will stop plaguing him, tormenting his soul, because he failed to see the sin in the man until it was almost too late, he could not free him of it. And now, the beast of the man is out there, causing havoc, keeping the sickness of sin within the city gates that the septon means to wash away with all that he and his loyal followers have.

 _The Gods have to return to me_ , the High Sparrow thinks to himself, glancing out the window. _And they will only do that if I bring him to the Justice of the Gods, and not the Justice of Man._

 

* * *

 

After hours of travel through the woods that seem almost unending to Arya, Jaime and she made camp by a small clearing, close to a sedulously flowing brooklet to provide water for Honor. Arya was rather displeased that Jaime ordered her to prepare camp – _yet again_ – whereas he set out to scout the area.

_Because that proved to be such a good idea last time._

“You might just as well make yourself useful and gather some wood for a campfire while I am gone,” was what he suggested with a smirk short before he went away. “So that we don’t run the same trouble as last night.”

“We are staying the night here?” Arya had asked him then.

“Yes, what surprises you about that?”

“Well, there is no cottage or so.”

“And last night taught us that we should stay clear of other people’s homes, if we have any intention to see them remain unharmed and out of the realm of our own affairs,” he answered.

“For that you are so keen on keeping people out of your affairs, you keep dragging me into yours,” Arya pointed out to him, but the man was having none of it, only ever rewarded her with that sort of smirk that already drives the young girl insane, because it means everything and nothing at the same time.

“That is because you dragged yourself into mine,” Jaime said before taking off, looking up to the hawk once to add, “You watch her for me, right? Peck her if the little wolf gets lost again.”

And so, Arya finds herself yet again forced to wait while others do the interesting things. She has no intention to only ever prepare camp for this strange man while he drags her to a place she doesn’t want to go to because it brings back to her what Arya pushed away in a long, long time.

She can’t go home. There is no way for her to return. But how do you explain that to a man who seems so much more focused on his bird than on the girl he means to escort to someplace safe?

And to make matters worse, Arya finds herself being forced into passiveness, when that is truly not her way of going about things. She always heads right in, no matter the danger, no matter the risk. The streets have taught her that no one is going to do the work for you, that there is no one to protect you other than yourself, and while Jaime may even have well in mind by returning her back to Winterfell, Arya knows that this not her best.

Not that Arya knows exactly just where her best is to be found, but she remains hopeful that a small ship across the Narrow Sea, to Braavos, will finally let her see that which she must see in order to find her way ahead.

And Jaime, including that strange woman from last night, to wherever she must have disappeared with the wolf, make her stay put, stand still, stay up in a perch or keep around a camp. Arya wants none of that sort, however. She wants to keep moving, moving ahead. There is nothing to be found in the past.

The bridge is burned, burned once and for all.

Arya looks around the clearing another time. While she has no intention to obediently follow the man’s orders, Jaime _has_ the rights of it that it can’t harm to see about some of the firewood.

However, that is when her eyes fall on the sword, which the older man seemingly tried to hide from her by putting it in the saddlebag, but unfortunately for him, the lion pommel started peeking its head out to the young girl.

If Arya wants to cut up a few logs to have good firewood instead of spending hours collecting dry twigs, then this may be the way. She saw that blade cut through metal – then wood will hardly pose a challenge.

And the girl cannot deny that she has been more than eager to take a better look at that marvelous sword. Arya quickly steals over to the saddlebag and draws the sword from its sheath, listening to the hiss of the blade, a familiar noise that has the fine hairs in her neck stand up at the memory. While Arya prefers another kind of blade, the Braavosi sort of blade that Syrio used for his water dance back in the day, she cannot deny that this is a marvelous blade, of Valyrian steel no less.

Arya goes back over to the logs, holds on to the rather heavy blade with both her hands, and then lets the sword rain down on the wood. She watches almost with admiration as the sword cuts the chunks of wood with almost no effort. Though it hardly surprises her, after all, Arya saw it cut through metal like butter before, back when Jaime fought the goldcloaks and the men of the Queensgurad, and through the logs, it cuts like a blade brushing through water.

As she is about to cut the next log in half, Arya finds her hands gripped and held high above her head. She looks back at Jaime who looks more than furious at her, the air catching in her throat.

“Are you mad, cutting logs with my sword?!” he curses, taking the weapon from her roughly, now looking earnestly offended. Arya observes as the man brushes his fingers over the blade, holds it against the light to check for scratches.

“You gave me no axe,” she argues simply.

“You think I let you alone with an axe? You were supposed to _gather_ firewood, not _cut_ it up,” Jaime grunts. “I was rather specific about that, I thought.”

There is a tenderness to his touch as he lets his gloved fingers travel over the central ridge of the blade. If Arya didn’t know better, she would go as far as to say that his movements are almost lovingly, though then again, the sadness she can see in his eyes whenever he looks up to the bird is there to almost equal measure.

Just what is it with this man?

“For the record, you won’t ever touch that sword again. You can count yourself lucky that it’s still sharp after your assault. A fine blade like that deserves better than that,” he scolds her, quickly walking over to the saddlebag to put it back into its sheath.

“It’s Valyrian Steel, isn’t it?” Arya asks.

“Yes,” Jaime affirms. “The finest blade I have ever wielded. It knows no defeat… until now.”

“What’s its name?” Arya wants to know.

She once heard that the best swords have names, which is why she had named hers as well. And the one Jaime wields is surely deserving of a title as well.

“Oathkeeper," Jaime says with a sad grimace tugging at his lips. "A gift from my father, short before he passed away.”

“Oh,” Arya says. Jaime looks at her. “Oh, no need for pity. My Father, in contrast to your oh so honorable Lord Father… was no good man. One may even think that his own wickedness brought about his own demise.”

“How did he die?” Arya asks, tilting her head to the side slightly.

“Of sickness, some years ago,” Jaime answers. “Some may even consider that a fortune.”

“Do _you_?” the young girl asks.

What a strange thing to think. Arya’s father is a hero to her, a role-model. To have here a man speaking of his own father in that way has her wondering just how many sons and daughters are raised by wicked men instead of the good ones.

“He was bad to others, but h wasn’t nearly as bad to me, I am aware of that,” Jaime replies. “I mean, he gave me that blade, so who am I to complain? My father gave it to me, likely in the vain hope that he would sway me to follow his orders, his ideas of how to rule the family after he passed. But I was too stubborn on my mission back then. Too foolish. I should have taken up on the mission he proposed, because that now leaves me with just with one, and it is the ultimate defeat.”

“And what _is_ that mission?” Arya asks, cocking an eyebrow at him.

Because that is the one answer he hasn’t given her yet.

“You really want to know, do you?” Jaime chuckles softly.

Arya shrugs her shoulders, feigning indifference.

“Well, if you _must_ know…,” he begins in a light tone, but that is when Jaime’s posture, his mimic, everything about him seems to change, curl in on itself and go dark by the edges. “My mission is the end of two people who have wreaked havoc across the Seven Kingdoms for far too long already.”

"And who are those unlucky bastards?" she questions. “Because with that blade, I suppose you will have easy game against almost any opponent.”

“You should know them. The Two Pillars. The High Sparrow and her Grace, Cersei Lannister, First of her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, and Protector of the Realm,” Jaime answers, his voice slightly shaking as he speaks, despite the fact that the way he speaks leaves no doubt in his devotion to carry out the task. “And that even though she does so poorly at the last part that her name promises.”

"What devil must possess you to even _consider_ such a thing?" Arya argues, her eyes widening at the mere thought.

That is plain as day suicide. Jaime would have better chances impaling himself on his sword and survive it than make it anywhere near close the Queen. She is untouchable. Only a fool would mean to kill her.

_Only a fool would try._

“Oh, I am possessed by some many devils, but they have no say in that,” Jaime replies, his features grim. “It’s simply something that needs to be done. It’s something that should have been done years ago, but there was no chance. However, now there is. So that, at last, I can honor my vow.”

His eyes drift over to the bird, which silently sailed to one of the branches to sit upon.

“To keep my oath,” Jaime adds, his eyes on the hawk.

Oathkeeper.

“You are mad,” Arya snorts disapprovingly. And _she_ should know, the young girl slept next to men in their cellars who were so far gone in their mind that they thought the _bowl o’ brown_ was a basket full of fruit, that they were Kings, some even thought they were Queens, walking around in finest silks. However, Jaime may prove to be even madder than them, which Arya thought was impossible.

But then again, just yesterday pulled on the edges of the possible, stretching it out to the point that Arya is no longer certain of the world and its capacities to bend out of shape. Much more seems possible now that she didn’t think would ever happen in a lifetime.

“Child, you have not seen _madness_ rage the way I have,” he spats, his features hardening. “It’s a word you should not use with such ease.”

“Then you are a fool to act like a madman nevertheless. They will have you killed before you even make it anywhere near the Red Keep,” Arya argues.

“And it’s not the Red Keep I will be going to,” Jaime replies, not looking at her.

“To where instead? That is where you find the Queen,” Arya scoffs.

“That needn’t concern you,” Jaime answers curtly.

“What? I thought you were going to tell me your grand plan?” the young girl argues.

“That’s all details. What matters is that… it’s not until long that everything will come together, will fall into place, right at the heart of the city, to then… finally fall apart. They will come together, for all to see. They will collapse together, for all to see. The world will bear witness. And then… I will collect the debt they owe,” Jaime says in a voice that seems far too sinister on a man who normally smiles it all away.

“And then you die,” Arya points out to him drily.

“In a way, I have been dying for a long time,” Jaime says, with a smile that fails to reach his eyes. “Every day and every night a little more.”

“Well, you are of no use anymore if you are dead,” Arya argues. That is what Syrio taught her early on in her sword fighting lessons. If you are dead, then you are dead. And you won’t see yourself collecting any debt – because you are going to be dead.

“And I don’t have to be of anyone’s use, do I?” Jaime argues.  

“But what of… your hawk?” Arya suggests, nodding at the bird sitting on its branch, after it went somewhat still once Jaime started speaking of the plan, as though it was a secret between the two that they otherwise were silent about.

“We made our arrangements long time ago,” he answers, only ever looking at the bird as he speaks, though it doesn’t really answer Arya’s question. “You see, little wolf, this plan has been set quite some time before you came along. I know the dangers, I know that this is… an end, this way or the other.”

“But you still have to get into the city. They know you are back. They have seen you there,” Arya argues, suddenly feeling something sink in her stomach – because they know he is back in King’s Landing because Jaime came to her rescue outside the city gates. If not for her, they wouldn’t know about him.

“Well, then I will have to be extra careful. I sneaked into the city before without their knowledge. I will manage, somehow, anyhow,” he says with a smile he doesn’t mean. “I have to. There is no other way.”

“Well, if you want to get yourself killed… then that is so. Not my problem,” Arya snorts, holding up her hands.

“Precisely. We will stop being each other’s problem once I have brought you someplace safe from where you can be gathered by your people to be returned home,” Jaime tells her.

“How often do I have to tell you that I don’t want to go back home?” Arya curses.

“And how often do I have to tell you that I don’t care?” Jaime retorts.

“If you don’t care, just let me go.”

“To where would you be going anyway?” he snorts.

“Well, if I wanted to go home, you think I wouldn’t have done so by now?” Arya scoffs, narrowing her eyes at him. “There is no place for me there. But in Braavos…”

“Wait, you want to set sail to _Braavos_ – and you call me mad? What would you want to do there?”

“As though I would have to tell you that,” the girl scoffs. “You wouldn’t understand anyway.”

No one does.

“Right, I don’t understand, and frankly speaking, I don’t bother to care either. Because it isn’t happening. I won’t have Ned Stark’s _honorable_ wrath come upon me for finding his daughter and then just sending her off to a vacation in Braavos,” Jaime retorts.

“Well, he isn’t going to find out,” Arya points out to him.

“But _I_ would know,” Jaime answers forcefully, but then shakes his head to calm himself back down. “I will not have this argument with you all over again. I will bring you to a place where you should be safe in the eyes of both the Crown and the Faith, until your people come to gather you. Whatever petty fights you have with your family, you are a fool not to put them to rest.”

“What do you know?” Arya argues, her eyes narrow slits.

“Apparently, that your going home is the one option there should be and actually is. And you are a fool for not seeing that, that is what I know,” Jaime tells her.

“And you are a fool if you believe that you can stop me. My father didn’t stop me either,” Arya says. “No one did.”

“I will,” Jaime speaks with determination heavy and dark in his voice.

“I will just sneak away first chance I get, you will see,” Arya warns him, waving her index finger in his direction. Jaime tilts his head to the side at that, something in his attitude shifting, until he says, “… Then how about we make a bargain? From one thief to another?”

“What would you have that would have me stay here against better judgment?” Arya questions, making a face.

“I have something I am rather certain you want to have,” Jaime tells her with a grin tugging at his lips, which only adds to the young girl’s irritation.

“You don’t have what I want,” Arya mutters.

What she wants is either long since lost on the other side of the bridge or far away, behind the Titan of Braavos, a whole world awaiting her to capture a glimpse of the world of her former master.

“Hm, I daresay I do,” Jaime chuckles softly.

Arya watches him carefully as Jaime makes for the saddlebag and slowly retrieves what looks like a stick wrapped in roughspun linen, held together by a leather cord. Jaime undoes the knot and rolls the cord off the long object, and the linen falls to the ground soundlessly thereafter.

And that is when she sees something that she thought she would never set eyes upon again in a lifetime.

“Needle,” the young girl whispers, the air catching in her throat.

_Jon gave it to me before we left… and I never returned again to show him how much I improved wielding it._

“Give it to me!” Arya shrieks as suddenly her stillness is overcome by agitation. She has to have it back. She spent such a long time trying to find it. She had to leave it when she had to flee. The young thief simply jumps forward like a cat, but Jaime simply holds the blade above his head.

“Nah-ah. That’s not how we do it,” he scolds her.

“Give it back!” Arya pouts.

 “I will give it to you once I drop you off at the safe hideout – as a pledge that you will stay there until your family comes to get you.”

“It is _mine_! Jon gave it to me back when I was forced to come to this place!” Arya insists, reaching up in a futile attempt to grab the blade, but Jaime stands far too tall for her to reach above his head, though he doesn’t stand as tall as the mysterious woman from last night.

“And I found it on the market and bought it,” Jaime tells her.

Arya is stunned for a moment, but then remembers how she lost it. Had it been at the palace, it would have been returned to her father, but she didn’t lose it there. It was in a small house near the city gates, where the First Sword of Braavos had taken refuge while at the capitol, unseen, unheard, but not for her.

Someone must have picked it up from the abandoned house and sold it, then.

“How did you know it’s mine?” Arya wants to know.

“There were vivid descriptions of you and your fancy sword after you escaped. Only a fool like the man I got this from wouldn’t have recognized it,” Jaime explains. “As I said, your face was all over the city, but apparently, short-cropped hair and breeches make anyone blind to what’s right before their eyes.”

“Why did you buy it?” Arya asks. “You didn’t know that you would meet me in the city, now did you?”

“It’s a fine blade. A bit small, but you can carve out fish very well with it,” Jaime chuckles, playfully swinging the thin blade around, which only ever adds to the girl’s aggravation.

“You don’t use it to carve out fish!” the young girl yells, gritting her teeth.

“Just like you don’t use mine to cut up wood,” Jaime points out to her.

Arya puckers her lips. “… Point taken. But why did you buy it for real?”

“It would have been a waste to leave it with a man who didn’t even know its worth in coins,” Jaime answers, shaking his head. “And one can never know. Sometimes you run into Arya Stark of Winterfell just outside the city gates while she is being chased by Meryn Trant and his loyal men… and then, such a thing might come in handy.”

“Give it to me!” Arya repeats. She just has to have it back.

“Give me twenty stags and it shall be all yours,” Jaime chuckles. “If not, I am keeping my fish knife.”

“I don’t have that much,” Arya shouts. “I have the clothes I wear and that’s it!”

“Then you will have to repay me in some other way. Like your word to stay at the hideout once we get there. I daresay that’s a pretty good deal for you,” Jaime tells her.

“It is _my_ sword,” Arya shrieks. “I shouldn’t have to buy it back. You should give it back to me because it belongs to me. Jon gave it to me. I named it Needle. I trained with it, day in, day out. It’s my sword! My sword!”

“I bought it, so by law, it’s mine. I paid twenty stags for this Braavosi blade. You ought to give me at least the money back that it took me to buy it to cover my expenses, and I can’t possibly collect that debt if you are off to look up to the Titan’s balls as you sail through the gates leading to Braavos,” Jaime tells her. “If you can’t pay that much… well, you will have no other choice but repay me in the currency I accept. And there is just one currency I am willing to take: Your word to stay at the hideout. And once that is done, it is yours again. I’d take the deal if I was you.”

Arya narrows her eyes at him as Jaime goes ahead to wrap the sword that means so much to her, the sword she thought she had lost on the other side of the burned bridge, into the linen, then the leather cord, to put back in the saddlebag.

“I know that you will try to steal it, but I would not advise you to do so,” Jaime sighs.

“I’m a thief. That’s what thieves do,” Arya mutters, barely moving her lips apart.

Jaime chuckles softly at that before proceeding to light a fire, using the logs she cut up with his sword.

 _Oathkeeper_. A fitting name for the blade of a knight of true valor, but Arya is not really convinced that Jaime is such.

 _It’s a good name, though_. She will have to give him that much.

 

* * *

 

Soon, night starts to crawl over the tree tops, painting rich greens and yellows dark shades of olive, juniper, and hickory. The fire cracks, painting the small clearing in warm colors, which will hopefully keep the beasts away from them that night. Arya sat down by the tree facing right towards Honor, right towards Needle, doing her best to ignore the older man’s antics of busying himself around the camp, doing this, doing that, packing up such, packing out yet another thing, all the while under the watchful eye of his bird, whom he keeps talking to in a hushed voice.

Arya still ponders her options, of how to get away – with Needle. She still has no clue just where in the woods she is currently at, which makes an escape ever the more difficult, and dangerous. Last night proved that the woods are full of beasts and mysterious things, including mysterious women, which calls the young girl to caution. Once she makes her escape, she has to be as swift as she was with the spoon back at the black cells.

However, that is when the girl’s attention is drawn to a rope suddenly in her lap. Arya already means to say something, but that is when the rope is pulled back, pinning her against the tree.

“Hey!” the young girl shrieks as the rope comes to the front again and again and again. It is only then that she sees Jaime coming to the front, holding the ends of the rope in his hand.

“You are not doing what I think you are doing,” she growls.

“If you think that I am tying you up for the night, then I suppose I have to disappoint your hope of doing the opposite. Because _that_ is what’s happening,” Jaime answers. “Next time, you may want to reconsider telling me exactly what you want to do.”

Arya glares at the man, breathing hard.

“I already gave that advice to someone else. It’s just like in swordfight. You shouldn’t grimace before you lunge. It gives away the game,” he says, before looking to the bird sitting on a branch, looking somewhat displeased. “Isn’t that right?”

The hawk shrieks at that, fluttering its wings.

“It was a good advice!” he laughs, walking around the tree to finish the ropes. “No reason to get offended yet again.”

“Untie me!” Arya yells, struggling against the constraints.

“In the morning I will, but even the likes of me need sleep every now and then, and I won’t be getting any unless I know that you stay put,” Jaime tells her.

“And here I thought you were aware whose daughter you are trying to escort here,” Arya snarls.

“I am aware, and I tend to think that Lord Eddard Stark, in all his pain-in-the-arse sense of honor, would rather have his daughter tied up a few nights if that guaranteed her safe return than have her walk free, so not to cause any irritation to the royal skin,” Jaime scoffs.

“What if someone comes here? I will be exposed!” Arya insists, struggling against the ropes.

“In fact, that serves even more as your protection, think about it, girl,” Jaime argues. “They have to untie you first because they are likely meant to bring you alive. And in any case, I just want to be sure that you pay the price for the sword instead of just taking it like little thieves do. Now that we know that you are the youngest daughter of a high lord, it would fit you so much better to act more like _that_ instead of a brat roaming the streets of King’s Landing for a crumb of bread.”

“You won’t get any sleep, I promise you that,” Arya curses. “I won’t let you get any.”

“You can surely try, but once I sleep, I sleep deeply,” Jaime sighs, and yet again, there is a shift there, if only for a moment, before he pulls himself back to his smiling self, full of everything-and-nothing-at-all.

“Yeah, like last night.”

“Yeah, like last night,” he repeats, though Arya notes the sudden edge in his voice as he allows his gaze to wander up to the darkening sky above.

Night starts to spread across the forest fast, fading out, extinguishing all color, even the darkest shades, safe for the small fire burning by Arya’s feet. Her whole body aches from struggling against her constraints, but Jaime apparently knows how to make knots quite well, because those won’t give way by only just an inch.

She is surprised when Jaime goes through the saddlebag yet again, as though they contained the entire world, taking out a bundle wrapped in linen, only to then put Oathkeeper up against the three next to her, and yet, far out of Arya’s reach.

“What are you up to now?” she asks.

“I will leave you to yourself for a while, see if there aren’t any men of the Faith Militant hiding behind the brushes,” Jaime tells her.

“And then you leave your sword?” Arya questions, nodding at the thing.

“They only have clubs. A sword would be a bit of an exaggeration,” Jaime tells her with a grin.

“What if the wolf shows up again – and doesn’t miss you thanks to the mysterious woman intervening?” Arya suggests.

“I think I will be fine,” Jaime tells her. “To where I am going, the sword is a bit of a hindrance after all.”

“And where would that be?” she asks forcefully.

“Taking a piss, of course,” he snorts before hopping down the small steep leading to the brooklet.

“Don’t piss in the water.”

“Will do,” he calls out, already disappearing into the night.

Arya lets out a sigh, looking at the bird still sitting on the branch. “You wouldn’t have any interest pecking open those ropes, do you?”

The bird tilts its head to the side, but then jumps off the bough and flies into the night’s sky where no moon has yet risen.

“You also just could have said no!” Arya calls after the beast, but then grimaces to herself. “I already start to sound like him. Gods help me.”

As the night proceeds and the moon freed itself from the clouds to paint a bit of blue and white into the otherwise pitch black sky, Arya continues plotting Jaime’s murder, thinking of all the things that Syrio taught her which she could finally put to use on that fool, for treating her like that.

Arya didn’t escape the black cells just to be tied up by a madman talking to birds.

However, her attention is pulled away from her plans of how to execute the man who shamed her so, as she hears movement close by the brooklet. Arya can feel her muscles tighten.

 _Where is that bastard when you need him for once_? she thinks to herself, looking around, but Jaime is nowhere to be seen. _Useless coot_.

The young girl already fears that the wolf has returned, or that some other beast may want to take a bite of the girl called Mouse, but that is when she catches a flash of blue coming up the small steep which leads to the brooklet.

The woman who tamed the wolf.

“M’lady?” Arya blinks, struggling against the ropes. She didn’t believe that she would see that woman ever again, and yet, here she stands, even taller and more imposing than last night, now that she can fully stretch her body and isn’t hunched over in a perch.

“He did that, didn’t he?” the tall woman asks with a sigh, looking around.

"You mean that bastard Jaime?” Arya scoffs.

“He is no bastard,” the mannish woman says, as though she was inclined to do that, an automatism, because she pays no greater mind to it, still looking around.

“Anyone who ties me up for no good reason is a bastard in my book,” Arya grumbles, growing only ever the more irritated at the circumstance that she pays no greater mind to the tied up girl, but instead looks around the camp as though it was something magical, when clearly it isn’t. Just Jaime’s stuff that stinks of horse and arrogance.

“So he didn’t say why he did that?” she questions.

Arya sucks the inside of her cheek into her mouth. Of course she could now tell the woman about how she wants to get away and that Jaime means to prevent her from it, but then again, he may have a point. She should not give away her game that easily.

“I reckon you know how he is. Quite broody on the occasion,” Arya says instead, before quickly asking something else, “Where have you been all day? I saw you leave with the wolf last night, but then you just disappeared.”

“I scouted the area,” the woman answers.

“And why didn’t you travel with us?”

“I was too far away by the time. Opposite direction,” she answers curtly. “I always am.”

Arya frowns to herself. Those two are not making any sense whatsoever.

The woman glances up at the night sky. “And he really didn’t give you any reason why he would have you tied up? Or is there something else he may have said?”

“I, uhm…,” Arya stutters, chewing on her lower lip.

This may actually be her chance of escape. The woman doesn’t know about Jaime’s plan with her, it seems. If she handles it correctly, Arya may be walking out of these woods by morning’s rise.

“He doesn’t mean you ill, you know?” the woman goes on to say apologetically. “He just… he just tries to protect people… _me_ … That’s all. He goes very far to know those protected he feels duty for. That is part of his condition.”

“Condition?” Arya repeats with a grimace.

“He’s always been like that. So dutiful to the duties he chooses that he sometimes loses… everything else out of sight. That got him into so much trouble over the years that I long since lost count of it. So if he was rather harsh to you… that may be part of the reason why. As I said, that is his condition.”

“But do I have to be tied up because of his _condition_?” Arya questions.

“You still didn’t answer me why he had you tied up,” the woman argues.

“Well, he wants to keep me here for the night, so I don’t run off,” Arya says. “I mean, I suppose I can count myself lucky that he didn’t strike me while he strapped me to that tree here.”

“He did?” the woman asks, frowning.

“Not, not ever,” Arya replies quickly. That woman knows him, she reminds herself. Thus, the lies have to seem natural, like they could be true.

“Good, or else I would have struck him,” she says, still looking at anything but the girl tied up by the tree. “Has he caused any other trouble?”

“Beside tying me up? Not really, he is just damn annoying,” Arya tells her, puckering her lips.

“Oh, _that_ I know,” the tall woman agrees. “You still didn’t answer my question, young girl.”

“I… I just didn’t want to appear ungrateful, you see,” Arya begins, suddenly feeling a tight knot in her stomach. “After all, he’s saved me from the goldcloaks back in King’s Landing.”

Arya has told some many lies ever since she ran away, ever since she became Mouse, became no one, but somehow, that doesn’t feel right to her, and yet, it has begun now, which means there is no more going back, but only going forward.

The tall woman looks at her for a long moment, but then goes on to say, “What would you say that is ungrateful?”

“You see, I… I want nothing more but go back home. It’s the one thought on my mind,” Arya goes on with her little story.

“To Winterfell, isn’t that right?” the blonde woman asks, studying her carefully.

Arya blinks repeatedly. “You know who I am? Has he told you?”

“No, he never does,” the woman replies. “I was… around the city when news of the disappearance of young Arya Stark made the round. And you look _achingly_ much like the girl on the paintings they spread around the capitol. Well, safe for the longer hair.”

“You don’t seem to fancy the long hair yourself,” Arya points out with a slight smile.

In fact, Arya would like to get to know this woman better, but there are priorities, her future is at stake after all.

“It’s grown back a bit by now. It used to be much shorter for a time,” the tall woman says, running her fingers over her scalp thoughtfully. “It’s more practical for me at that length… but anyway, you were saying something about wishing to return home.”

“Yes. And I told Jaime time and time again that I have a friend who lives around the area who would surely bring me back home, if only he took me there. But he said he had no time for that. Because of… because of some great _mission_ he has to fulfill,” Arya goes on to say, the knot in her stomach feeling so much worse than the ropes around her ever felt.

The woman’s eyes pierce right through her as she asks, “He won’t see you off home?”

“He said that he had to hurry things up. I don’t know why. You see, my friend, he lives more in Eastern direction, but Jaime said that he had no time to take me there. He said he doesn’t care. And as I told you, I didn’t mean to appear ungrateful. It’s just that I want to go home, but I want to go with someone I trust in. And I trust Syrio with my life,” Arya goes on.

 _I did, I did, that is no lie, but he doesn’t live in the East. He doesn’t live anymore at all_. Arya thinks to herself, her mind reeling.

This feels wrong.

So wrong.

“That seems unlike him,” the woman mutters, looking around yet again, searching something or someone she can’t seem to find, no matter how hard she tries to look.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into him, but he said that the plan changed and that he had no time to see me all the way off to the East. He said that he would drop me off _somewhere_ , but Gods know where that is. And if that person or place can be trusted,” Arya continues. “You see, Jaime, he won’t take me, even if I were to ask him. I know this part of the woods quite well. I know how to get to my friend going from here. If only I had a chance to just… go my ways… be free.”

In fact, Arya doesn’t know where she is, and she wouldn’t find a friend anywhere, no, no, she would get herself a small boat to set sail to lands she has never seen.

“Free…,” the woman whispers, and Arya can spot a similar expression that she saw on Jaime earlier the day.

“But I can’t just let you go off on your own,” the woman goes on to say.

“I know how to defend myself. Give me a sword and I will know how to keep any enemy away from me. I learned from one of the greatest swordfighters in the whole world. With a sword, no harm will come my way,” Arya insists frantically, however, the woman looks absolutely unimpressed.

“How long did your master-at-arms train you?” she asks.

“Some time. I… I am a fast learner,” Arya answers.

“It takes time and discipline to master the sword,” the tall woman tells her.

“I know how to defend myself, what I don’t know is how to defend myself from being dragged the opposite direction of where I should be going to, to get back home. Now that I am out of the city… out of the prison they threw me into, I just want to be with the people I love, m’lady, as fast as possible,” Arya sighs, keeping up her game.

The woman grimaces at her, visibly contemplating. However, after a short moment, she shakes her head before proceeding to the tree and untying the young girl.

“I will escort you,” the blue-eyed woman declares.

“What? No, m’lady, there is no need. I’ll find my way around,” Arya argues.

“There actually _is_ a need. You are a girl, a child, alone in the woods. At times such as these,” the woman argues.

“I found my way around King’s Landing, too,” the young girl insists.

“But never back home,” the woman retorts. “It is my duty to see you safely off to where you need to go – and that is home.”

 _Those two sound far too much alike_ , Arya thinks to herself with a grimace. It’s as though they spoke with one mouth, one mind, even though Jaime uses a bit of a different expression when it comes to those things. The woman before her, unsmiling and overly sincere, seems even more set on his vows that Jaime appears to be.

“… Alright, then,” Arya says at last. The tall woman comes back to the front of the tree, offering the young girl a hand to help her stand. Arya takes it with a grimace, blinking at the ease with which the lady in breeches and blue tunic puts her back on her own two feet.

It’s the first time in a long time that Arya had people being kind to her. Even Jaime in his strange ways was not entirely that bad except for not letting her go and being utterly useless in defending her against the wolf last night. However, this woman beats it all. Arya has never seen anyone quite like that. From the looks, this lady in clothes that would fit any man the same way, looks like uncut, rough stone, but her voice is soft. She listened to Arya instead of just taking what Jaime may have said for granted. She heard her out. She undid the ties, and is willing to take her East to a house that she doesn’t know is not to be found there.

Arya didn’t have anyone being kind to her in a long, long time, to the point that it is an unfamiliar taste on her tongue, a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach, a kind of warmth that stretches to the edges of her body, but leaves her skin chilled.

Because Arya feels less and less deserving of those favors.

“You will stay close to me at all times,” the woman goes on to say. “And we have to hurry up if we want to go Eastern direction and reach the boundaries of the woods within the night. I know the way to go roughly. We can make it if we are quick on our feet and take no rest in-between.”

“Oh, I am ready for that,” Arya says, flashing a smile she doesn’t mean, wondering for a moment if Jaime’s mouth must hurt as much as hers does now that she is doing the same thing he does all the while. “I rested before. We should just go.”

The woman nods her head slowly, looking about the camp another time, but then her gaze stops at the tree Jaime’s sword is propped up against, while Arya makes for the saddlebags to gather Needle.

Over her shoulder, the young girl can see the tall woman kneeling down before the sword, which, now that she sees it, looks almost like a present.

“You know he’s going to be mad if you take it?” Arya comments as she unwraps Needle, her sword, the one thing she will be able to keep from the times when all seemed easy, when Winterfell was not on the other side of a burned bridge yet, and the biggest trouble she faced was being scolded by her older sister for not being lady-like enough.

“I think he will be less concerned with me taking the sword than seeing you off on your own,” the woman argues, not looking around to Arya, her big blue eyes fixed on the sword gleaming like fresh blood in the moonlight.

The tall woman picks the blade up with utmost care and lets her fingers dance over the leather of the sheath, to feel the familiar bumps and ridges, the engravings, the many lions into which the sword is wrapped.

She then pulls the sword from its sheath, lets its blade sigh as it leans into the moonlight. It almost looks like a blade made of pure light as she bends it in direction of the moon.

“Hello, my old friend,” she mutters with a smile she means to keep hidden, a kind of tenderness she wants to keep in the darkness of the night, but Arya can see it all as her fingers curl around Needle, feeling its familiar weight, reuniting with the one friend Arya dares to hope she will be able to keep from now on. Because the dark-haired girl will see to it to never lose it again.

The tall woman shakes her head abruptly, then, putting the sword back in its sheath, buckling the belt around her waist.

“We ought to hurry,” she says, though likely more to remind herself than Arya.

“I am ready,” the girl says.

The tall woman nods her head before the two proceed into the woods, into the darkness, until they are both no more than faint contours in the dark.

Normally, Arya would mean to make some conversation, ask some pressing questions that are heavy on her mind, so that she can see again, see more, understand more about those two, but the young girl doesn’t dare to, fearing that she would give herself away. She knows her one direction is ahead now – and that there is no looking back.

Though it only ever reminds her of how she had to abandon Syrio, back when the goldcloaks came for him. She just went out and didn’t return until it was all long since over, yet another burned bridge.

And now it seems she will do the same with the rather strange man who came to her rescue and proves to be a rather reluctant sort of savior.

Thus, she continues silently by the side of the blonde woman whose right hand tightly clutches the lion pommel, which is the one thing Arya can make out in the dark, as some of the moonlight filtering through the dense canopy above their heads falls on the gold and rubies with which the pommel is decorated.

Arya looks around, though there is not much to be seen, but that is what tells her that it’s time. Her steps become faster and faster, though she tries her best not to give herself away, carefully balancing over the rustling leaves on the ground. And yet, the woman seems to notice only a short time later.

“Don’t walk ahead too far. It’s dangerous,” the woman urges her.

The young girl comes to a halt and bends down quickly to pick up a stone that she could see while the light of the moon danced over it thanks to a breeze opening up the canopy for a short while.

“I am sorry,” she says as she gets back up. “I thought you were ahead of me already.”

The woman wants to say something, Arya can hear that, but then she snaps her jaws back shut and starts to walk ahead again. They proceed for a while longer next to each other in silence. However, that is when a howl rings through the woods like a bell, bringing the tall woman to a stop at once. And that is when Arya knows her chance is now or never. She tosses the stone in the back as far as she can, sending it crashing and tumbling over the forest ground, and for a moment she herself is convinced that it sounds like footsteps.

“Get behind me,” the tall woman mutters with urgency in her voice, her hand tightening around the sword. “Stay here. I will check.”

Arya says nothing, just waits until the woman proceeds in direction of where the noise came from, and in just the right direction, the young girl may add. The woman seemingly has a fine ear for that, but she doesn’t dare to ponder longer, instead turns around and runs, simply runs into the darkness.

_Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Quick as a snake. Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Quick as a snake. Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Quick as a snake. Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow…_

Behind her, she can hear the woman calling out her name over and over again, telling her to come back, telling her to stay, telling her it’s dangerous, telling her not to go, but Arya’s feet won’t stop, won’t leave the one direction she knows.

She simply keeps running, not seeing a single thing.

However, Arya knows that when you want to survive in this world, you have to be harsh, and you can’t hold on to friendship too much, honor and vows, those are the things you readily abandon if you are hungry, if you have some other place to go, to be.

You have to become no one.

And yet, that is when Arya, for the first time in her life, _truly_ feels like a thief, like a Mouse, the name she refused for so long because she liked to think of herself as a rebel, as someone merely trying to survive.

But tonight, she is a thief. Tonight, she is Mouse.

Arya holds on to Needle ever the tighter, runs ever the faster, though her heart is heavy and she has to blink away some unshed tears.

 

* * *

 

The tall woman with big blue eyes looks around frantically. She has spent hours looking for the child, but the girl slipped away simply too fast. One moment she was there, the next she was not.

 _Cheated by a child. I will never see the end of it once he finds_ _out_ , she thinks to herself as she decides to make back for camp, knowing that she will not find her this way. The girl is gone. And she lost her.

And it appears that she lost him a bit as well – because it seems so unlike Jaime not to see Arya Stark safely off to her family. Just what is that man thinking? They both made a promise to each other when they decided on the plan. And now he moves out of his ways like that?

If only she could tell him.

If only he could hear her.

See her.

_If only I could see him._

Observing that the moon already starts to fade and the forest is heaved out of the darkness of the night slowly but surely, the tall-standing woman makes back to the camp, where the fire is still burning and the horse is still silently sipping water from its bucket. She lets her gaze wander over the camp, noting its familiarity.

He always tries to make it look somewhat the same.

A bit like home in a place that isn’t.

Because that no longer exists for the likes of them.

The blonde woman leans her head against the tree from which she untied the girl, letting out a weary sigh. “He is going to kill me for that.”

And she is going to kick herself for it, too. Tricked by a girl. What was she thinking? Why did she fall into the same pitfall she allowed herself to drift into far too often already?

However, when the girl mentioned going home, going back to her family, being free, something stops with her each time, a call, or rather, the echo of it still ringing louder than any noise her ears have ever witnessed.

Because those things are no more, and the mere thought of keeping someone else from that loss seemingly prevented her from thinking straight on that occasion, sadly so. And now she can’t even go searching for her.

 _Just how cruel is this world_?

The tall woman shakes her head as she pulls away from the tree, and instead heads towards the saddlebags. She reaches into one, not even exactly sure what she is looking for, but her fingers come to rest on familiar fabric, smooth leather and rough stitches.

“You need to work on your stitches. I told you often enough before all went wrong,” she whispers, brushing her fingertips over the leather and linen. “Or else they will fall off your frame one of these days. But that’s the thing with you former lordlings and knights, you are far too used to having servants and squires do the deeds for you. And you bet I won’t do it for you, that I, too, told you often enough. A spoiled lion, hm?”

She swallows thickly, twisting the leather between her calloused fingertips, but then withdraws suddenly, knowing that it does not help her to wallow in the sadness she feels clutching at her heart. It long since makes no difference anymore.

Blinking a few times, the woman straightens back up, briefly letting her gaze wander into the sky, which already turns indigo by the edges, announcing another day, another time of failed promises.

The tall woman sucks in a deep breath as she unsheaths the blade wrapped around her waist, her movements slow this time, careful, taking the bit of time she has with it, feeling its familiar weight twist and turn. It is the one way to remind her of the former days, when the point of a sword was the end of her arm, when wielding the blade did more than fill her with pride, with a sense of use, but joy, a joy she never knew until she came to King’s Landing, only to find it replaced by a sorrow she has only ever made the acquaintance of in just that city.

She lets her fingers glide down the central ridge, listens to the sword’s whisper.

“Seems like it’s just us two tonight… yet again,” she says with a soft smile, but that is when a wolf howls close by. The blonde glances ahead, over the small brooklet rushing undisturbed, to a small mound on the other end, on the other side of which stands a wolf with white fur and golden ice that pierce through the indigo of the remains of the night about as sharply as the sword can.

Her mouth opens and closes once, twice, but then the tall woman walks to the edge of the camp, raising her sword in the beast’s direction, letting it reflect in the moonlight like a small beacon.

Their eyes meet for a moment, but then the wolf turns its head and heads the other direction.

“Seems like I was already exposed,” she mutters as she withdraws the sword, rotating it in her hand once, twice, thrice. “I don’t even want to know what he will have to say in the morning.”

The blonde woman with blue eyes shakes her head, then, and walks back into the camp, all the while twisting the sword, rolling her shoulders.

She doesn’t have much time left, but she will use it the best she can.

And so, the woman takes position, bends her knees, steadies her stance and allows the sword to dance in her grip, halving the air, cutting it apart, only for it to reunite in a way that she would envy it for if the winds were an animate thing. While continuing her dance through the small camp with bold if surprisingly elegant steps, the woman allows her eyes to stay closed, so to have a chance to hear, to listen to the familiar song of metal whistling and sighing, breathing, coming to life.

Oh, what she would give to hear it strike against another blade.

What she would give to hear that song again.

Because she is afraid of forgetting, since the melody continues to fade from her mind, leaving only muffled whispers that grow vaguer with every day coming to an end.

And she cannot afford to forget, cannot afford to lose that, too.

Because it is the last she has left of some of her fondest recollection, of when she last danced with the sword, with laughter, with lightness in her steps, with joy in her heart, making it fly than any bird ever could, with him.

It is the last memory she has of how their swords kissed and sprang apart and kissed again.


	4. High Grass, Bolts, and Clay Cups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime sets out to find the little girl who just can't seem to behave herself. 
> 
> Arya still feels guilt for having run off while she tries to find her way back to the sea, back to where she may get to Braavos. 
> 
> However, she is soon interrupted.
> 
> And then, everything takes a wrong turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thanks for sticking around, for commenting and kudoing. That means so much to me. ♥
> 
> I hope you are going to like this chapter. I shredded hard in this. HARD. 
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

  


“I knew it. I knew it all along,” Jaime sighs as he walks up to the camp, wearing only just his black breeches after washing up in the river. The grime of last night stuck too closely to his skin, which is why Jaime had to take some time to wash the night off of him. Some nights are better, some are worse, but this time was definitely worse, only to return to even worse news that came at the sight of untied ropes and a very mute hawk that normally doesn’t shut up when he makes back for camp.

On one of the branches over which he hooked his other clothes, sits the blue hawk, tilting its head to the side, making itself seem rather small, against the odds of its size. If Jaime didn’t know better, he’d tend to think that she is actually looking guilty.

“What a wonderful morning, wench!” he goes on to lament. “You and your bullheaded sense of honor never fail to impress me! Even more so at a crucial time such as this!”

Jaime knew that no good would come from having the girl talk sweet to her once she came to camp last night. While she is a woman who grew very distrustful over the years, the woman will find certain things her obligation, no matter what, and that will cloud her judgment – even of him.

Oh, what he would give for it if they could still exchange messages the way they once used to.

“Just what did she tell you was I going to do? You didn’t really think that I was meaning her any harm, did you?” Jaime questions, looking at the hawk with a grimace. “ _Did_ you?”

The bird shrieks at that, as though to object. Jaime laughs at that.

_Of course not._

“Good. Because that would have me questioning you, wench. You didn’t believe what they said about me back in the day, and that was likely worse than anything that the girl could have lied about when it comes to my intentions,” he goes on, picking up a piece of cloth to dry himself with.

When it came to it, she didn’t believe for only just a second that he was the man or the beast they tried to make out of him, no matter what they did to them both.

“You can count yourself lucky that I was already expecting you to mess this up for me. You are way too easy-believing and kind-hearted, letting yourself be fooled by a girl. She may look nice and sweet on the outside, but she’s a little minx on the inside. That child even stole the sword!” he continues.

The bird steps a bit further away from him on the branch, averting its gaze, which has Jaime tilt his head to the side, some of the droplets hanging on the tip of the wet strands of hair falling into his eyes.

“What now?” Jaime asks, frowning. “Are you ashamed for having been fooled by the child?”

The hawk keeps glancing away.

“Or that I curse at you for it?” he suggests, and yet again, there is the same reaction coming from the hawk.

Though that is something that didn’t change, no matter the circumstance. She always keeps silent when she should just speak her mind, or in that case, shriek it.

Jaime keeps studying the hawk for a moment longer, but then a wicked smirk tugs at his lips. “Oh, or is it the lack of clothes? I must apologize, wench. I tend to forget that you are a noble bird who would blush at the sight of a wrist exposed – if hawks had the ability for it… can birds blush, you tell me?”

The hawk spreads out its right wing at that, slapping against his wet hair, which has Jaime laugh only ever the more.

_Some things truly never change._

And he is glad for it, relieved, even, if not thankful. Because everything is different, every place they stay is not the same, they are always on the run, always out in the open, the unfamiliar.

“Fret not, wench, I will fix the mess you created in no time,” he assures the hawk, pulling his tunic over his head. “The way I always do!”

The bird flaps its wings angrily before jumping off the branch to climb above the canopy, to the blue sky above.

“You better find her for me! It’s the least you can do! You owe me that!” Jaime yells after the hawk as he puts on the rest of his clothes.

The bird shrieks at him in reply, setting out in Eastern direction.

“Ah, so that’s where she went,” Jaime says aloud as he stuffs all that is their little world now into the saddlebags. He stops for a moment by the sword set against the same tree he left it at. It may not make sense to anyone else, though Jaime reckons their entire existence does not seem reasonable to the rest of the world, but it has grown to be their little ritual, to fend off the unknown that is their life now. It’s a gift, every day for him, and every night for her.

To keep each other safe.

Jaime grabs the sword, pausing for a moment as his fingers curl around the golden grip.

_It’s still warm._

Almost like a touch, but really just almost.

She must have held it tight all night long, and judging by the footprints around the fire, she danced with the sword for as long as she could before she had to disappear again.

It’s those faint traces, a bit of warmth of a sword’s grip, footprints near a campfire, sometimes some wild berries gathered for the other to eat, or some stitches done on a coat that would otherwise likely fall apart already overnight, those fleeting things that are the one stability they have left in a world that is chaos.

Jaime buckles the sword around his waist, then, feeling its familiar weight against his body, taking another moment to memorize, to not forget, before he finishes up and mounts Honor, knowing that there is little time to lose if he wants to have any chance to right the little conundrum she caused with her way-too-big heart.

And he has to get a sword back.

 _And the girl attached to it_.

 

* * *

 

 Meanwhile, elsewhere in the woods, Arya still tries to find her way out of it. Now that she was reunited with her precious Needle, the girl wants to believe that this was the turn of events she was waiting for, no matter the costs it came with.

Once Arya out of the woods, she may follow through with her plan after all. Syrio always talked about Braavos. She wanted to believe that once she had the money to catch a ferry across, or find a boat to take her across the Narrow Sea, she would find a new home, after she had forgone hers in favor of the water dance her master-at-arms taught her.

Arya wanted to fight with a sword, she wanted to be knightly, not be stuck in the palace, watching King Robert eat until the buttons popped off his tunic, didn’t want to see her stupid sister ogle at the young lordlings that were present for the feasts, fancying herself a husband already at that age. She was tired of her father ignoring her, she was tired of it that when he finally let her take lessons with the man she came to admire so, so much, Eddard Stark didn’t keep true to his promise and said that they had to return to Winterfell.

The young girl never understood, and back then, she didn’t want to. Needle was all on her mind. Syrio was. She didn’t even waste much of a thought on it when she simply hid in the vaults beneath the Red Keep while they searched for her. A place where they keep the skulls of the dragons that once roamed around and brought destruction and fear to the Seven Kingdoms, a dynasty long since fallen under the weight of its own arrogance, trying to control such beasts, believing themselves to share one blood with them.

She heard the stories, and she tends to believe that if a family can bring forth the likes of the Mad King, it is for the better that their power petered out, turned to ash, fire and blood run cold. The one living Targaryen has seized the throne in Meereen, though Daenerys Targaryen seemed to have a change of heart not to make for Westeros. Arya only ever heard the stories whispered into cups in the inns down Eel Alley and Flea Bottom. That without a politically able advisor native to the Seven Kingdoms into which she may have been born, but has not grown up in, she put her plans of claiming the Iron Throne to rest, and instead devoted her cause to the slaves.

And if that is true, then Arya is bound to say that this is the kind of Targaryen she can live with. Far away and finding some other purpose than poking one’s elegant fingers into the affairs of a country never set foot upon.

 _The Dragon Queen would likely not enjoy it here anyway_ , the young girl thinks as she skips down a small mound. _Not the right weather, and a bitch for a Queen even us don’t want to put up with_.

The thought brings her back to Jaime and the mysterious woman who untied her last night. The memory is a bitter one, Arya has to realize. While she doesn’t regret running off itself, she feels bad about the tall woman, about the lies she told her. Jaime did not what she said he had done, and for the first time in her life she truly felt like a thief, when normally, she distanced herself from the others in at least that one regard. The mere thought of going home makes her stomach turn all the while, but having left the woman in the woods, potentially causing distrust between Jaime and her, that has her stomach tie into a tight knot.

And to make matters worse, she spent the whole night not just wandering around aimlessly, but also pondering her head sore about how all that fits together: The hawk, Jaime, the Queensguard, the Faith Militant, the strange woman, and how they seem to occupy night and day separately, though they seem to travel together, care about one another.

While it’s a thing of impossibility, Arya keeps thinking that there is something connecting the stranger woman and the hawk, as though they were the same thing. Because each night, the hawk is gone, and the woman appears. And the way that man looks at the bird, the way he speaks to a beast that should not understand a thing he says…

 _A Lady Hawk! Imagine that_! Arya thinks to herself. _Though maybe I am just too tired and make up things on the top of my head. How would such a thing be even possible? A woman is a woman. A hawk is a hawk. There is no in-between, now is there?_

She is ripped out of the train of thought as bright light hitting her eyes.

The outskirt of the woods at last, the girl thinks, but strangely enough, feels no relief washing over her the way she thought she would.

However, looking around is not much more revealing than wading through the woods proved to be. Arya still doesn’t know where she is. If she were up North, she would know every stone, every mat of moss growing up a tree, but King’s Landing never grew to be her home, even less so the outskirts of this wretched city, no matter how much time she already spent there. She knows her way around the city, even the secret passageways out of most people’s reach, but outside the city, she is as blind as she was in the sewers back when she escaped the black cells.

People are not very kind to little thieves, and so going to King’s Landing, no matter the dangers, often ends up being the one alternative for children who have no home, or in her case, have a home they no longer dare to return to.

Thus, this area proves not much of an improvement for her. While there is light at last, there is only just a plain field of green grass, framed by the woods that keep their chokehold on her. From here, Arya still can’t spot the way to the capitol, let alone the ocean.

However, Arya doesn’t want to let that wear her down.

 _Braavos_.

She should go to Braavos. Retrace Syrio’s steps, and alongside, find her way again. Maybe see if there are other sword masters who can teach her a few more tricks, another water dance. They will never be as good as him, of course, but maybe that will bring her closer to the friend she lost, and with him, all her future plans.

She simply has to find the sea.

 

* * *

 

“For Seven Hells’ sake, just how is it possible that she got this far on her own? Just how far did you take her, wench?” Jaime mutters, looking around.

While he knows the rough direction thanks to the hawk showing him the way, Jaime is aware that there is only so and so far that the bird can show him, because day always comes too fast and night doesn’t stay long enough to echo into the next day, the future.

“I hope you are having more luck up in the air,” Jaime mutters, glancing up to the canopy above. His attention is drawn to the sound of the hawk shrieking above his head. She breaks through the canopy, cuts right through it like the sharpest of blades, to land on his shoulder as swiftly as ever.

“Ah, there you are. I already thought you were bypassing me,” Jaime laughs, holding on tightly to the stretches of leather attached to the bird’s feet.

That is when he notes the hawk’s upset, as it keeps turning its head from left to right, fluttering its wings.

“We are in trouble, aren’t we?” he asks with a grimace, already knowing the answer, though he finds it confirmed when the hawk tilts its head as though to nod.

“Then what kind of trouble did we head ourselves into, you tell me?”

The bird tilts its head to the other side.

“I tend to forget that asking you those kinds of questions requiring further elaboration,” Jaime snorts. “Can you show me where to?”

The bird hops off his shoulder to sail through the air from one big branch to the next to guide him the way.

Jaime already means to say something, but then thinks better of it as he suddenly hears voices echoing through the forest.

 _That can’t mean any good_.

“Well, maybe they are better at finding the girl than we are,” Jaime mutters quietly as he readjusts his grip on the reins to guide Honor in the same direction the voices are travelling, though Jaime is careful not to draw too close.

He glances around, surprised when the hawk is breaking through the canopy, sending leaves to fall to the ground below. Though then again, Jaime knows he shouldn’t be, actually. She wants to make good on something, so finding the girl is likely the one thing driving her.

Which means they are now in a strange sort of race of who is going to find the little minx first.

 

* * *

 

 Arya is sitting in the high grass, munching some berries she found, though even those started to taste somewhat bitter, and that despite the fact that they should be so sweet that it should hurt her teeth. The young girl knows that, since similar berries grow up in the North, but those are hard to swallow down.

Though perhaps it’s her stomach turning upside-down over and over that is making it a difficult meal for her to force down her throat.

Maybe she really shouldn’t have run away and instead should have tried her luck once Jaime would have dropped her off, but then again, that would have meant that her family in all likability would have gotten news about her whereabouts. And Arya can’t have that, not if she wants to have any chance to make across the Narrow Sea.

The bridges were burned, and Jaime and the hawk and the mysterious lady are seemingly another bridge she will have to leave behind, burned down to the ground, with no way to go back to where she came from.

She listens to the rustling of the blades of grass as they dance in the wind, finding a bit of solace in a part of the Crownlands that she never set foot upon before. Arya grew so accustomed to the frenzy of the city that she almost forgot the beauty of the nature she was so very set on being a part of when she was still at home and hid in the Wolfswood when she grew just too annoyed at her sister belittling her for her bad stitches or her father kept telling her that she would be a lady to a lord one day, when all Arya wanted back then was to be either a lord in her own right, or at the very least a knight. That was until she came to King’s Landing and started to fancy her life as a Braavosi water dancer. 

Thus, listening to nature’s call yet again has something at least slightly reassuring for the young girl as she tries to force the berries down her throat. Yet, there is a sudden disturbance in the grass’s song. Arya can hear it quite clearly, as though the wrong instrument started to play all of a sudden.

Arya turns her head at the sudden noise, trying to find its source. The young girl can spot movement in the high grass close to her, so she quickly unsheaths Needle, trying her best to retreat without causing too much movement to the blades of grass.

_Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Quick as a snake…_

She realizes too late that there is movement behind her as well, since the girl remained too focused on backing away from the movement ahead of her. Arya can do nothing much but scream as she is grabbed from behind by strong arms.

To think that she falls for the same trick with which she meant to outsmart the lady with big blue eyes last night may be the epic kind of irony that is the luck of the thieves.

“See what we found,” the man with foul breath chuckles into her face, all the while holding her tight in a chokehold. “A little Mouse.”

“Let me go!” Arya snarls, recognizing him and his friends emerging from the high grass as some of the soldiers whom she quarreled with time and time again while still in the city, like running away, biting them, or one time pouring a bucket full of horse shit right over their heads. And while Arya does not regret those actions by any means, she realizes that they may come to bite her now anyway.

“And how would you make me?” the man laughs, tightening his grip on her to the point that Arya can only breathe shallowly.

The young girl loses no time and simply stabs him with Needle, not caring where she hits so long she hits something. The soldier with bad breath lets a shout as his grip on her loosens. Arya jumps into the high grass and tries to bring some distance between herself and the men sent by the Queen to capture her.

However, once she escaped that man’s clutches, she runs into the next one, and then another one emerges from the high grass, as though they were all born out of the grass to capture her, to take her away. Arya finds herself encircled by the men far too soon, each of them looking like a snake short before sinking its teeth into the unwitting prey.

However, she is no prey, Arya reminds herself, her fingers curling tightly around Needle’s grip. She sucks in a deep breath, telling herself over and over that she is Arya Stark now, the girl Syrio Forel trained, and not just the little thief named Mouse who may have been good at tossing shit and rotten apples at the soldiers meant to take the “boy.” She has Needle now. That changes everything.

 _It has to_.

Arya takes a moment to suck in a deep breath, before going into position for her water dance.

“What are you up to with that toothpick of yours, hm?” one of the soldiers taunts her. “You really think you can beat us with that?”

For demonstration, two of them raise their swords, one looking heavier than the other, but Arya doesn’t allow that to wear her down, she knows that the time to despair is not now, not ever. And so she charges the man with foul breath first, moving her blade as expertly as she can, trying to copy Syrio’s movements, all of which she can remember. The man can do nothing much but stare as she manages to disarm him, but before Arya gets any chance to appreciate the victory, the next one comes charging and brings down his sword on her with such a force that it knocks Needle out of her hand

“No!” she cries out, fearing for Needle, fearing for losing it again, now not to the city but the high grass, but when she is grabbed yet again, Arya knows that this is far more urgent.

“You escaped us long enough,” one of the men says.

“Well, then take me back to King’s Landing, if you must,” Arya scoffs, struggling against him, but to no avail. “Throw me back into the black cells, hm? See how that works.”

“Oh, we will in due time, unless the Queen decides that your life is as worthless as it is and that you might just as well die for your crimes,” he tells her.

“For stealing a bit of bread?” she shouts.

That is the problem – everything is sin with those people. Even eating is a crime according to them.

“For escaping imprisonment, for defying the laws of the Gods,” the older man tells her.

“Well, they aren’t _my_ Gods,” Arya grunts, trying to break free, kicking her feet, but nothing comes of it because that man stands too tall for her to land a punch or kick.

“I wouldn’t say that so loud once we are back in the capitol, you know. The High Septon surely won’t like to hear that,” the man taunts her, to which Arya only replies, “I don’t think he likes me no matter what I say or don’t say.”

“But you may get yourself out of that situation, boy,” the man holding her tells her.

Arya frowns. “How so?”

“We have a bigger fish to catch than you little Mouse right here. If you bring us to the man you have been travelling with, you will not receive as harsh punishment as you deserve for what you have done,” the man explains to her.

“You want me to sell him out?” Arya translates.

“What? He kept you as a prisoner, didn’t he? What would you care whether you are selling him out or not?” the man scoffs.

And a few days back, Arya genuinely would have agreed to that with all of her heart, when her name was Mouse and…

“He’s headed to Tumbleton on the way to Bitterbridge as far as he told me,” Arya says promptly.

“To Bitterbridge, _right_ ,” the men snort in unison.

“Well, if you don’t believe me, then why do you bother to ask?” Arya huffs, rolling her eyes.

“Next time, you want to come up with a passable enough lie, boy,” one of them says with a grin. “But you can be of help for us anyway.”

“How?”

“Well, he was quite set on getting you out back in King’s Landing, as far as we heard. I have no reason to doubt that he will be looking for you right now. So all we have to do is wait for him to come and get you,” the man holding her says, mockingly tapping against her the cheek with his free hand.

“He won’t come,” Arya replies hastily, pulling away from him as much as she can, granted the iron-like grip he has on her. “I tricked him and ran away. He said he had bigger plans in mind. He won’t come for me.”

_At least he would be a fool to even consider such a thing._

“Is that so?” the man laughs, not quite believing what he hears from the little thief.

“I betrayed him. He won’t come for me, trust me in this,” Arya insists.

She can’t imagine that Jaime would make the effort to hunt her down. Not if he is set on getting back into King’s Landing to get a chance at swinging his sword at the Queen and the High Sparrow. While she understands that he would have brought her to wherever he considered it a safe passage North, Arya cannot imagine that he would make the effort after what she’s done to him, and far more importantly, _to her_.

A crossbow’s bolt flying past her head, connecting with the man’s side to tear him to the ground has Arya snap out of the thought, back to the blades of high grass, and a white flash of light cutting right across it.

The young girl can do nothing much but stare as familiar yet shocking images play before her eyes as Jaime comes riding out of the woods, crossbow in one hand, reins in the other.

 _That simply can’t be_ , she thinks to herself as the hawk comes raining down on the men from the sky. And yet, that is what is happening, she can see it with her own two eyes.

“Just leave us alone and you shall live,” Jaime calls out, drawing Oathkeeper from its sheath.

“We have our orders to bring you to King’s Landing,” one of the men huffs, drawing his sword. Jaime cranes his neck. He doesn’t recognize these men. New recruits, presumably, and seemingly closer in spirit to their masters than Jaime dares most to be who used to serve another Lord Commander, back in another life.

_How did the old woman say? Rotten to the core, all those apples._

“Then I fear that you will disappoint the people who gave you the orders, but in time I learned that disobedience can be quite liberating. You should try it yourself,” Jaime tells him. The man doesn’t listen, though, but instead charges Jaime, who is ready to battle, quickly dismounting Honor to answer the call the other man is giving him with the tip of his blade.

Arya whips her head around to see the other men now meaning to grab her and Jaime, so she quickly dives through one man’s legs, to where she supposes Needle flew by the time the man slapped it from her grasp.

The man already means to grab her when the hawk rams its claws into his head, throwing him off-balance.

“Thank you!” Arya calls out to the hawk while wading through the high grass in search for her precious blade, though she really does mean it.

Thank you.

However, Arya knows that there is more urgent business to attend, so she quickly resumes her search for the weapon she knows to defend herself with, and thankfully, her fingers soon find the familiar touch of leather and metal. From the corner of her eye, the girl can see Jaime single-handedly fending off the soldiers just like she saw him do it outside the city gates. Nevertheless, it doesn’t fail to impress her. One by one, they fall into the high grass, are swallowed by it.

Similarly, the hawk is busy making the vicious snakes wearing fancy cloaks retreat into the high grass they came from, scratching, biting, taking weapons away and tossing them away far out of their reach.

And for a moment, Arya dares to think that those two can turn even the direst situation into something good.

For a moment, she dares to think that no matter the trouble she may have caused by running off, they can fix it.

Sometimes, all it takes is all but one moment.

One moment you stand still, the next your entire body starts to move, set into motion, every muscle, every bone suddenly following that one command.

One moment, you are a high lord’s daughter, the next you become no one and have to steal bread on the streets for a living.

One moment you live, the next you are dead.

And so, it only is that one moment Arya sees passing by, flitting across her eyes.

It’s just a moment, even less, supposedly. One moment the soldier close to her is standing there, watching Jaime delivering the blow that sends their leader tumbling to the ground. One moment, Jaime just stands there, a bit of blood dripping from where the man managed to cut his right arm, preparing for all that is necessary to end this. And the next, the man next to her is aiming right at the man who came to her rescue even though Arya didn’t even dare to believe such a thing possible.

One moment is all it takes.

She slaps Needle’s blade against the man’s hand to make him miss his target, and in fact, that works, but not at all to the effect Arya anticipated, let alone hoped for. The man coils back and the bolt flies high into the air.

The shriek that comes raining down from the sky is deafening, paralyzing.

“Nooooo!” she can hear Jaime shout atop of his lungs as the hawk twirls from the sky above to the ground below in a sickening sort of dance against the winds.

Neither one seems to pay any mind as the last one runs over to where they left their horses and quickly rides away, likely fearing for dear life itself.

Arya sees the man who just hit the bird scramble on the ground. Her fingers move on her own, grabbing the next best big stone to knock the man out with, all the while her eyes focused on Jaime making his way over to where the hawk sailed to the ground, an unknown horror clutching at her chest.

Jaime falls to his knees by the bird’s side, breathing heavily, his hair falling into his eyes.

“No, no, no, no, no,” he keeps repeating, looking on in horror as the bolt still sticks out of the hawk’s body.

_That can’t be. That mustn’t be._

That was not part of the plan. The plan was something else. Not yet, not now, not at the hands of a lad who barely knows how to use a crossbow just yet.

They made it through so much worse and this is supposed to be the end of it?

That simply cannot be. That simply must not be true.

_Please no._

“You don’t get to die on me, we talked about this often enough, wench,” Jaime mutters, his eyes stinging. “You promised me, you hear that?”

The bird makes faint shrieking sounds that has his heart sink impossibly lower.

“I need something to wrap her wound with! Now!” Jaime curses at no one in particular, though he can see the young girl who has given them so much trouble run up to Honor at once, digging through the saddlebag to take out some shreds of linen.

Arya rushes up to the two of them, her eyes wide in shock. Yet, Jaime has no time to pay attention to her level of distress, instead just snaps the cloth from the girl’s loose grip to proceed to wrap the bird to keep it from making its own injury any worse.

Because he can’t afford to lose.

Not now, not until the deed is done.

 _Wench, you promised me_.

Jaime ignores the pain shooting up his arm as he goes through the motions, fully aware that there is a pain far worse, and it may become palpable again after he made a vow to himself to never feel that pain again, not in a lifetime, not ever.

Because it tore him apart, made him the monster everyone is afraid of now.

“I could do it, too,” Arya mutters, wanting to offer help, but not really knowing how right at this moment.

“I can do that myself,” Jaime snaps, continuing the task with as much care as he can, all the while staining the linen with drops of blood.

She is his responsibility, his to keep safe, his to protect. He swore it.

_And yet… I failed. Again._

“But your arm,” she says, nodding at his bleeding limb.

“Just a flesh wound,” he says between gritted teeth, only ever focused on the bird. “It’s _her_ I am concerned for. Birds don’t have boiled leather to lessen the blow. They wear no armor to protect them.”

He can only leave one lying around for the night, but he can’t protect a creature of the air with a heavy armor, or else they are stuck on the earth and wouldn’t know how to fly, Jaime knows. Yet, this just shows him how there is no way for her to be safe, not so long those two demons draw a living breath, because every breath of theirs is filled with loathing for them.

“I am so sorry…,” Arya means to say, but Jaime interrupts her harshly, “I don’t care. Not now. I don’t have the time for you to unburden yourself.”

Arya opens and closes her mouth a few times, but then bites down on her lower lip hard, realizing that now is not the time for apologies. They wouldn’t mean anything right now anyway. There is just one thing on his mind – and that is the hawk.

 _And all that because I ran away_ , Arya thinks to herself, letting her head hang low.

Once the bird is wrapped, Jaime leans back on his knees, gripping his injured arm with a grimace. He allows his gaze to wander over the plains of high grass and the woods framing it. However, what has more of his attention is the shade of the sky, which shifted into orange and violet already, announcing that the day will disappear far too soon.

 _We have no time_.

And he has a promise to keep, still.

“Little wolf!” Jaime calls out, letting out a light cough, eyes focused on the bird, his mind made up by now.

Arya draws a bit closer. “Yes?”

“I need you to do something for me,” Jaime says, not looking her in the eye as he speaks.

“What is it?” the young girl asks, licking her lips nervously.

“There is a small septry not far from here, right behind that stretch of forest over there,” he says, nodding ahead, swallowing thickly. “That is to where I meant to take you before you ran off. And now I want you to go exactly there on your own. The person who runs this place is a man by name Tyrion. Ask him to help her. He will know what to do.”

“But, but your arm,” Arya insists.

“Now!” Jaime barks. Even now that child means to oppose him.

_Don’t you see that there is just one thing that matters right now – the one thing that has wings to fly with?_

“But this the only horse,” Arya argues frantically.

She is surprised when the man stands, against the pain, picks up the bird as gently as he can with one arm and gives the young girl a shove towards Honor.

“Sit up,” Jaime says through gritted teeth. “Don’t expect me to lift you up now.”

Arya scrambles up the horse’s back, blinking as Jaime hands the hawk to her, noting all the while the utmost care with which he handles the animal, against the odds of his trembling fingers.

“But what of you?” she asks again.

“I will come after you as soon as I can,” Jaime answers, swallowing thickly. “But foremost, she needs help. And she needs it fast. So I need you to help her now in my stead. Do you understand that?”

If he wants to keep his oath, Jaime will have to do something he unlearned over time – to trust anyone but the woman he learned to trust with his life and more. And now he is forced to trust a girl who likely wouldn’t even begin to understand what the weight of such promises is. And yet, he has no other choice.

“I…,” Arya stammers.

“You ran away alright, and I don’t care for that right at this moment, but now, I swear, I will hunt you down if you run off again before she is at this septry. You owe me something, little wolf. You owe me that you bring her to that place as fast as you can, do we get each other?” Jaime snarls.

Because he doesn’t just pay his debts, Jaime is also set on making sure others pay for it. That’s what has driven him ever since he made it out of King’s Landing, and he shall be damned if all of that is damned now because of one bolt.

“Do we get each other?” he repeats when the girl won’t reply at once.

“I… yes,” Arya mutters, holding on to the reins a little tighter.

“And just to be sure…,” he says, unhooking Needle from her belt, though Arya does not protest, still too shocked that he came and risked his life to save her. “I will keep this as your pledge – to me. And you will only get it back once I am there to make sure that you followed through with the order.”

Jaime then grabs her sleeve, drawing a little closer. “You listen to me now, little wolf. Her life is now in your hands. You dare drop that chance and run off again without getting her to the septry and I will have your head dropped to your father's feet."

Arya swallows, though she can see that desperation is moving the man’s tongue. The young girl isn’t even frightened by the threat. Before her simply stands a man as desperate as one can be to know his companion, now human or animal, protected at all costs.

And that, in itself, Arya cannot find an act of dishonor at all, no matter the way he expresses that.

“So, do I have your word?” Jaime demands to know.

Arya nods her head slowly. “You have my word.”

She tightens her grip on the bird, though careful not to cause any more damage than she has already achieved by running off the night before.

Jaime gives her a brief nod before he claps Honor on the side. “Listen, boy. You will go to the septry as fast as you can. No detours. And don’t be fooled by the little minx. You just walk until you reach the septry, and then you will take your rest, yes?”

The horse whinnies, as though to agree with its master. Jaime claps the horse on the rear to send it galloping ahead. Arya looks back over her shoulder as Jaime grows smaller and smaller in the distance, no longer surprised that Honor simply keeps the track without her giving the steed a single command.

Once he loses sight of them, Jaime lets weakness overtake him. He sinks to his knees, holding his bleeding arm. An anguished cry escapes his lips as he sees Oathkeeper, still stuck in the moist earth, the shadow falling on his face as the sun keeps disappearing behind the horizon.

He looks up into the sky, his free fist balled to the point that the leather of his gloves creaks.

“I pray you, Father, Mother, Maiden, Warrior, Smith, Crone, Stranger. I may not have been a man of great faith, and I may have been a sinner for all my life, but don’t take her from me, I beg you. Don’t take her.”

He bows his head, gritting his teeth against the pain, both in his arm and his heart.

“But that I promise you, if you take her anyway… I will come to you, right after I finished the Queen and the High Sparrow. And that one thing you must know about me… I tend to keep my promises, for better or worse.”

 

* * *

  
  
Arya almost completely lost track of time ever since Jaime sent Honor galloping towards that mysterious septry ahead. While she saw the change of colors in the sky, time grew to be a blur all of a sudden, the memories of the moment Jaime and the hawk were injured walk circles about her head ever since.

 _And all that because of me_ , the young girl thinks to herself, swallowing. _Had I not run off, that never would have happened_.

That was nothing she had to worry about ever since she became a thief in the city. Perhaps that was what made it appealing to her even when it was not at all a joy to live through such hardship, but ever since Syrio, Arya didn’t want to have to worry about that anymore, didn’t want to think about it anymore. So long she was by herself, so long she was alone, there was just herself she had to be concerned about. However, now Arya feels what she didn’t want to have cursing through her body ever again, a feeling of attachment, a feeling of owing others.

And yet, she has that feeling back, and that with an ominous man she barely knows, a woman she never asked the name of, and those curious beasts that are somehow connected to it all.

The hawk starts to struggling in her grip, which calls the young girl’s attention back to the mission that is now hers to carry out.

“You have to keep still, Lady Hawk,” Arya mutters over and over, as the bird keeps battling against her no matter how bad the injury seems to be. “If you move too much, the bleeding is going to get worse, and then Jaime will have my head on a stick. Do you want that?”

She lets out a shout when the bird pecks her in the back of the hand.

_Maybe she really does…_

“Ow!” Arya pouts, shaking her hand, but then grimaces. “Well, I suppose I had that one coming. But that doesn’t mean you should move around, still, Lady Hawk. For your own good, please.”

As the sky starts to turn purple and violet, at last, a small, shabby septry comes into sight. Arya lets a silent sigh of relief. That means Jaime won’t kill her, _yet anyway_.

“See, Lady Hawk? We are getting you the help you need now. All’s going to be fine again, you’ll see,” Arya tells the bird, which only shrieks in reply, seemingly about as furious with her as Jaime likely is. The young girl grimaces, but then focuses on the septry ahead, which looks worse and worse the closer they come to the building. In fact, she fears for a moment or two whether the septry is actually unoccupied. Because that would certainly mean her death as well, the young girl is almost painfully aware.

Arya almost falls over when Honor comes to an abrupt halt, pulling her out of the train of thought, back to the reality of standing before the halfway broken-down septry.

“You know, you could have brought me to the gate, too, right?” she scoffs as the horse keeps its position. “But oh well, I suppose I deserve that, too.”

Arya grumbles as she climbs down the white horse’s back, which is already busy munching the rich grass growing around the mostly abandoned property, careful not to shake the poor bird any more than necessary so not to cause further injury. Once that is done, Arya rushes up to the gate and swings the lion head doorknocker against the wood as hard as she can, the smacking noise echoing all the way inside the building.

“Hello! Hello! I need help!” Arya keeps calling out as loud as she can. The young girl listens carefully, a task she has mastered over the years as a thief always having to wait for chances to arise even when she could not see a thing, and can hear the shuffling of feet across rough stony ground some moments later.

 _Thankfully_ , she thinks to herself.

“This septry is closed!” she can hear a man’s voice coming from the other side. “Come later… never.”

“But my friend needs help!” Arya insists.

And here she thought the Faith was at least trying to keep up the façade that they care about the people and are set on granting them refuge in times of need.

 _So much to that_.

“You should go somewhere else!” the man on the other side tells her, sounding, upon reflection, a bit drunk, actually. “There is a small town about ten to fifteen miles in Southern direction! Ask for a room in one of the inns! They are all the same amount of shitty!”

“But I have nowhere else to go! What kind of a man of the Faith are you if you refuse guest right to a young girl!?” Arya pouts, stomping her foot on the ground angrily.

“A sane one. They sometimes use girls to lure people out of their homes,” the man on the other side argues.

“I was sent here by a man who knows you,” Arya argues. “Jaime?”

She can hear a sudden stop of all movement on the other side of the door.

“Jaime is here?” the man asks, sounding earnestly shocked.

“Not with me. He stayed behind, but his hawk, it’s…,” Arya means to say, but that is when, much to her surprise, the heavy door opens at last. Ever the more surprisingly, however, is who reveals herself to her in the dim light of the torches hanging on either side of the door: A dwarf with long-grown, unkempt beard, wearing the robes of a septon, though he looks anything like the septons and brothers of the Faith Arya has seen around the city.  

“What happened?” he asks, looking around nervously, though his eyes instantly catch the bird in the young girl’s arms.

“We were attacked,” Arya answers, not sure whether it would be a good idea to let the man know that she was the one who got the poor hawk and Jaime into that trouble. After all, he seems to care about Jaime enough to open the gates against what he perceives to be better judgment.

“By who?” the dwarf questions, gesturing at her to hand the hawk over to him, though Arya hesitates for a moment.

“Goldcloaks,” she answers simply.

“Those bastards just can’t leave them alone, no matter what they do or don’t do,” the dwarf sighs. “Now give her to me. We have no time to lose. That much I can tell. So c’mon.”

Arya nods slowly as she carefully places the big bird in the short man’s hands, surprised that the hawk doesn’t battle back against him as much as she thought it would. Similarly, she is quite taken aback that the man, against the odds of his height, insists to take the big hawk, even though it evidently gives him trouble to move as a result.

However, Arya lets him be and simply walks after the short man as he carries the big bird before him, seemingly considering that his duty now. She notes with a bit of a frown that there are dozens of clay cups lying on the ground, some of which are still dripping red wine, while others are coated in dust and cobwebs, which has her think that the man must have been smashing those cups after emptying them for a long time already.

He stops in front of a small room. “You can wait over there by the kitchen. There should still be some bread and… maybe some cheese and ham, too. You would have see for yourself. I will tend to her in the meantime.”

“But I wanted to…,” Arya means to say, but the man cuts her off with urgency in his voice, “I am taking care of it. Now be on your way, and do not disturb me. I know what to do.”

The young girl gives a brief nod, and then closes the door once the short man is inside, proceeding into the kitchen, because after the long ride, even her upset stomach demands something to fill the emptiness she feels raging inside herself.

Meanwhile, inside the small chamber, Tyrion places the bird on the furs laid out on the heap of hay with utmost care. He never thought he would see that bird again in a lifetime, though if there is something life should have taught him by now, then it is to expect the unexpected, a lesson he learned by a time it was far too late to right the wrong.

“I wished we would have met again under more fortunate circumstances,” he says as he starts to slowly unwrap the cloth tucked around the bird’s chest. At last, the blood-smeared feathers come to light, and he can’t help the hiss of empathy at the sight of the bolt sticking out of the bird’s body. The hawk flutters its wings, letting out a shriek.

“Please, keep still, keep still,” Tyrion says in a hushed voice, gesturing at the beast to calm itself, and thankfully, its movements still at that. He waits a few moments longer before allowing his fingers to brush over the feathers to inspect the wound more closely.

“Oh, that doesn’t look too good,” he mutters. “I think we’d do best to properly clean that first.”

He brushes his fingers over the bird’s head with a grimace. "You just have to hold on a bit longer, you hear me? Then I will make it better, I promise. I know what to do.”

Tyrion presses some fresh linen to the wound, so to keep pressure on it, before pulling some of the furs over the animal to keep it warm.

“It’s sad that this is the circumstances under which we meet again. Though I thought I would never see you in a lifetime. Jaime said he wouldn’t allow it. And I can’t begrudge him for it,” Tyrion says, looking around. “But more of that later… I need wine – _for the wound_ , this time.”

Tyrion leaves the small chamber to venture through the kitchen, frowning at the fact that it is unoccupied. After all, the girl was meant to be in here. Though perhaps the child retreated someplace else to have her meal. She appeared to him as more of a wild thing after all, dressing in men’s clothes, reminding him for the faintest of moments of a woman he once knew before all good ended and all the bad began. Tyrion wastes no more time and goes ahead to gather one of the many flagons of wine that he produces here by himself, uncaps it and pours it into a pot to boil over the fire. The last drop, he pours into his own mouth.

“I can’t be completely sober, or else I am not even functioning,” he mutters to himself.

Unknown to the dwarf, Arya crept over to the other side of the hallway to secretly steal inside the chamber into which he brought the bird. The young girl doesn’t yet dare to trust the man, and Jaime said that Lady Hawk is now her responsibility, which she knows, she has to answer if she wants to bypass suffering the man’s wrath.

Though Arya is surprised to see the mystery woman on the makeshift bed instead, naked as on her namesday, only covered by the furs, her big blue eyes fixed on the ceiling. Once she hears the door creek, the tall woman turns her attention to Arya at once, her gaze almost piercing right through her.

"Where is Jaime?" she demands to know. "Is he..."

While she cannot remember, she has this feeling, a pain that spreads inside her whole body, like a poison, a pain she feels whenever he is injured or hurt. And that pain, she can feel it – and it’s not just thanks to the arrow in her shoulder.

_What if he died?_

She would never know, now that night broke and there is no way to hear his voice, if only as a faint whisper fading from her memory whenever the sky becomes her limit.

_And isn’t that cruel enough a destiny to suffer?_

“He is alright, I think. He took an injury to the arm, but just a flesh wound. Though it didn’t seem as bad,” Arya tells her, keeping her head lowered. Now standing before the woman she lied to last night makes the knot in her stomach tight to the point of being almost unbearable for the young girl.

“What happened?” the woman asks quietly, which surprises Arya, because she thought the woman would jump her at once for the betrayal, though maybe the injury is keeping her from the fury she likely feels in her heart for the trouble the young girl caused by breaking her promises and running off on her own.

“Don’t you know?” Arya asks with a grimace, daring to draw a little closer.

“I never know.”

That is their condition. They always lose each other out of sight once one time of the day goes and the other comes. They only know either night or day, the rest is darkness, nothing but darkness.

“The goldcloaks came after us… after me. Jaime… He saved me. It was a brutal battle, but he fought bravely, like a lion,” the young girl explains, chewing on her lower lip.

The tall woman lets out a dry laugh at that, leaning her head back, "Like a _lion_ of course."

“You are Lady Hawk, aren’t you?” Arya asks quietly.

“How would you come to believe that?” the woman with blue eyes questions, focusing back on the dark-haired girl before her.

“I entered this septry with a bird, and no one stole into the room after the dwarf left… and you bear an injury just where the poor hawk was hit when the two came to my protection… and whenever you are here, the hawk is gone. So… it’s you, isn’t it?” Arya asks.

That is the one explanation there is, no matter how impossible it may seem.

The older woman swallows thickly, chewing on her lower lip, gaze lowered, flat chest heaving. “Yes.”

“How is that possible?” the girl asks.

“I don’t know. I just know that this is our condition,” the woman says, now tears standing in her eyes. “And you are sure he was alright before you left?”

“Jaime is tough. He will pull through, I am sure,” Arya tells her, letting out a light cough. “And I just… I just wanted to say that I am… that I am sorry.”

She bows her head, trying to fight against the burning sensation in her eyes. Arya knows she should not feel attachment to strangers, but she does, and she can’t stop herself now. Not after the grief she caused them both.

“For what?” the blonde woman questions.

“Running away… lying to you,” Arya whispers, barely able to get the words out of her mouth.

“So he didn’t mean to just leave you anywhere, did he?” the woman asks, though it’s not really a question but more of an assessment.

Arya just shakes her head. “He wanted to bring me here… so that I could get into contact with my people up North…”

“That sounds more like him,” the woman says, her face completely blank, unreadable for Arya as she tries to anticipate the woman’s reaction. “I found it odd anyway, but then again… Jaime _does_ take extreme measurements at times to see the mission achieved.”

“He was as honorable as someone could have been to a little thief like me. Even more so than a thief like me even deserves,” Arya argues. “I never should have told you that lie.”

“Well, I will say that I found it rather harsh of him to have you tied up,” the woman says, barely moving her lips apart. It’s clear that she is angry with Arya, but at the same time, it’s also evident that there is much more on her mind than a lie told to her. If Arya is not mistaken, her thoughts run circles around the man who didn’t come with them all the while.

“I would have run off otherwise,” Arya admits.

“But why?” the woman asks. “Why run away when he meant to take you to a place that would guarantee your safe return home? Why run from that?”

Because she doesn’t understand that, cannot begin to fathom it.

_Just why?_

“Because I don’t wish to return home,” Arya answers, knowing that now is no longer the time to hide and pretend. If she wants to stop being Mouse, she has to start now, or else there is no way ahead, but only back to the little thief she grew to be in the city, no matter her insistence to the contrary.

“Why wouldn’t you?” the woman asks.

_Why would you mean to stay in the foreign lands if you have a chance of being at home, if there is a chance to be with the people you love?_

She doesn’t understand that. The Gods will know what she would give to have that back, if only just for a day.

“It’s a long story.”

A story Arya has never told to anyone, in fact.

“Well, it doesn’t seem to me that I have much else to do for the night other than lying here, now do I?” the woman sighs.

“I… when my father wanted to leave the capitol with my sister and I… Sansa and I didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay at the court. She quite fancied the lordlings there, whereas I fancied my dancing lessons,” Arya begins to explain.

“Dancing lessons?” the woman repeats, frowning.

“ _Sword_ dancing,” Arya tells her. “Syrio Forel. The First Sword of Braavos…”

However, before she can go on with a story that stayed untold for so long, the dwarf comes into the room, with boiled wine in a wooden bowl and some pouches full of herbs. He almost lets the red liquid spill to the ground upon catching Arya in there.

“What did I tell you?” he curses.

“She long since figured it out on her own, there is no reason to bother about it now,” the tall woman argues, letting out a shuddered breath. “It’s actually long since over anyway. We both know that.”

“Alright. But now I will need some privacy after all, to tend to her wounds,” he tells Arya. “Whatever else you wish to talk about, it will have to wait until later.”

“Yes, of course,” Arya says, nodding her head curtly, before turning to the tall woman on the hay another time, bowing her head slightly. “Lady Hawk.”

It’s the one gesture of respect Arya knows that bears on meaning, just like Syrio once taught her. Because she knows that she owes that woman more respect, owes her simply more, than a nod or a bow. However, she also knows that now is not the time to ponder these matters. Instead, she makes for the door to wait outside.

“Is _that_ what she calls you?” Tyrion chuckles softly as he comes closer. “Lady Hawk?”

“It’s better than ‘wench’ most definitely. So I rather take up with that,” the blonde woman says with a small, tired smirk.

Though that in itself is also a lie. She would rather be called “wench” throughout the Seven Kingdoms, if only to hear him call her that to her face just once.

“He still calls you so?” the dwarf questions as he sits down next to her.

“As far as I know. Or maybe it’s just the echo from my memories ringing in my ears. One can never know,” she answers. “Though I just tend to think that some things… truly never change. And that, I daresay, is one of these things.”

"It’s unfortunate that this is the circumstance under which we meet again, but… I am glad to see you again, after all this time that you two were gone from the face of the earth," he says as he dips a piece of clean cloth into the wine to dab on the wound. The woman doesn’t even flinch.

"He is still angry with you, you know?” the woman replies quietly.

"He hates me, I know that. And he’s got any reason for it,” Tyrion answers with a weary smile, but then looks up to her. “And you? Do you hate me?"

“If I truly hated you, you’d long since be dead, Tyrion,” she answers, her face unmoving. “A bolt wouldn’t keep me from it. I took worse injuries than that and still won a fight… until they forced me into a battle I could only lose.”

“About that…,” Tyrion means to begin, but the woman is quick enough to cut him off in a sharp tone, “We shouldn’t speak about it, I believe. There is more urgent business than that.”

Tyrion nods his head again and again.

“You are right… well, the bolt will have to come out. I already tested. It hit nothing vital, but now that you are a woman, the arrow sits ever the tighter. So there will be pain, a lot of it. I can give you some milk of the poppy…,” he means to say, but the woman won’t let him finish, “No.”

“But…”

“I said no,” the woman snarls. “Just carry on.”

“But that would lessen the suffering,” he insists. And after they have been through so much of it, Tyrion would want to offer at least that bit of relief.

The woman straightens up a bit, no matter the pain that sends through her body to look him deep in the eye, so that he understands, so that he sees.

“I will not spend the little time I have to live and talk and walk sleeping away,” she tells him, her voice slightly shaking, but nonetheless having enough impact to have the man momentarily shudder. “I only have the night. So you carry on with the bolt. And if I scream, I’ll scream. And you will go on, ignoring it.”

There is no suffering compared to what they have gone through, are going through each day. Tyrion should know that by now.

The dwarf swallows thickly, then bows his head. “… As you will.”

“Then be quick about it.”

 

* * *

 

 Arya, meanwhile, retreated into the sept of the septry, or rather the remains of it, nervously pacing up and down for news to come out of the chamber. There are still so many things she wants to tell Lady Hawk, just like she wants to ask her some many questions, but that is when the screams begin.

And that is when her curiosity momentarily dies out completely.

The young girl turns her head to the side, guilt washing over her for the pain she caused Lady Hawk, putting her through even more suffering than she can see in the woman’s deep blue eyes whenever their gazes meet. Arya covers her head with her hands as she tries to get away from the screams.

In the distance, a wolf by night howls at the moon with every shriek of the woman who turns into a bird by day.

“So that is your condition, both your condition,” she whispers, at last, understanding, at last seeing, even with her gaze milky due to the unshed tears standing in her eyes.

After what feels like an eternity, the small man comes out of the room, still cleaning his bloodied hands as he hobbles over the dirty ground.

“How is she?” Arya asks, rushing up to the dwarf, almost missing her step once, then twice, but catches herself again each time.

“Alive. Sleeping now. She passed out towards the end,” he says, coughing lightly. “The bolt got stuck quite badly after she…”

“Turned back into a woman again,” Arya completes.

Tyrion nods his head. “Yes.”

“So… you know what this is about?” the girl asks.

“Oh yes, I know. I have my hands too deeply into those affairs to ever wash them of it,” he confirms, looking on sadly as he finishes washing his hands clean of her blood.

“So… will you tell me what that’s about? Lady Hawk and Jaime…?” Arya asks.

“No. I made that mistake once, and it cost me everything I cared for… and more,” the dwarf answers, before making for the kitchen. Arya goes after him to see the short man grabbing the next best flagon of wine he can find, alongside a small tower of clay cups that he balances in his other hand, a certain routine to his movements that tells Arya that this is not the first time he does this balancing act.

With the wine and the cups, he returns to what used to be a septry, but is now only just a heptagon on the ground with no walls, just some pillars standing. Towards the one end of the heptagon, seven statues are lined up, and the dwarf walks up to him, as though he was magically drawn to them.

“But I already know what she is, so you might just as well tell me how,” she argues, still eager to get the answers now, to see it all, to understand it all.

The small man only ever shakes his head at her in reply, sitting down in front of the small statues representing the Seven with a thud, placing the cups on one side, the flagon on the other.

“No,” he answers, popping the wine open at the exact same moment, as though to give gravitas to his answer. Tyrion grabs one of the clay cups and fills it to the rim, some of the red liquid spilling on his robe, though he pays no mind to it. Instead, he lifts the cup in direction of the statues, saying “cheers” to each of the Seven, one at a time, before emptying the cup with one swig.

Arya jumps when he tosses the cup behind himself, letting it smash into a hundred pieces no two feet away from her.

“Hey!”

“Sorry, terrible aim. Short arms, the usual,” he says, only to fill the next cup. Arya can’t quite believe it. That man has no better than get dead drunk now?

“So what? You are just going to get drunk while I sit here, getting no answers?” she pouts, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You came here for help for her, and help is what you got. You didn’t ask for information by the gates,” Tyrion argues, leaning his head back slightly. “I am quite sure about that. I have a rather good memory, against the odds of my drinking, it’s actually rather exceptional, I daresay.”

“I was rather preoccupied with Lady Hawk by the time,” Arya grumbles.

“Well, maybe something to consider next time,” he scoffs, emptying the next cup, only to toss the old one away, adding yet another heap of shards to the pile.

“But I need to understand how it is possible for a woman to be a hawk by day – and how a man can be a wolf by night,” Arya insists.

Because that is apparently still not making any sense, even less so since a drinking dwarf was tossed into that mix.

“I learned over time that curiosity is a wicked thing. It makes you ask questions you shouldn’t be asking, and sometimes, it makes you spill secrets that you should keep at the bottom of a cup,” Tyrion says with self-loathing in his voice as he empties the next cup.

Arya says nothing at that, but reminds herself of Syrio’s teachings, of how you have to be observant of your opponent. And while she would not mean to challenge Tyrion to a sword fight, for neither does he seem the type, nor does she have her sword on her right at this moment, Arya learned that the arts of sword fighting apply to real life more often than not. And so, she observes the man who empties one cup after the other, the wine slowly but surely pouring the bad feeling of regret out of him, it seems, as his voice continues to become lighter and his tongue looser.

Seeing her chance, Arya walks up to him, offering him to refill his cup. “I can do that for you. You seem rather shaky after… all the work.”

“I am not a maester by any means. I just read about as much as one does,” he says with a small smirk, accepting the girl taking up the flagon to pour him another drink. He empties it quickly, only to toss the next clay cup away.

“Any certain reason why you keep smashing these?” Arya asks.

“You should try it,” the dwarf tells her with a lazy sort of smile tugging at his lips. “It’s fun.”

Arya, reckoning that she should play along for now, takes up a cup and throws it into the corner, watching it smash to pieces.

“It reminds me, you know?” Tyrion goes on.

“Of what?” Arya asks.

“How easily everything can fall apart.”

“And what fell apart… for you?” Arya questions carefully, all the while refilling the cup for him.

“As if you couldn’t guess,” he snorts. “It always comes back to those two. It always will. And I can smash as many cups as I want, it won’t fix what I let break apart.”

“What happened to Lady Hawk?”

“Her name is _not_ Lady Hawk,” he argues. “She is Brienne. Brienne of Tarth.”

Arya wrinkles her nose. “That name sounds familiar.”

“It should. She is a nobly born daughter to the Stormlands, to the Sapphire Isle, to be precise. She was the only living daughter to Lord Selwyn Tarth of Evenfall Hall, the Evenstar. Though sadly, the good lord was stricken by Greywater fever and died when Lady Brienne had merely come of age,” Tyrion tells her, seemingly all seals he kept on his mouth now loosened up thanks to the tart taste of the wine.

Arya grimaces sadly. She already reckoned that Lady Hawk’s, no, Lady Brienne’s tale was likely no pleasant tale, but to think that it already starts out bad makes her feel ever the more remorse for having told the woman such a mean lie to get away. And now it makes even more sense to Arya that the tall woman took the bait when she started talking about going home, being free – those are all the things Lady Brienne likely craves herself for many years.

And just thinking about that makes Arya want to throw up the berries she forced down her throat while sitting in the high grass earlier the day.

“And what of her mother?” the young girl asks carefully, hoping for some good news to come, but seemingly, the world is not that kind, since Tyrion replies, “Dead as well. Died in childbed when giving birth to her young sister, who also died in the cradle, like the sister before that… Her brother drowned when she had turned eight years old… It was a big tragedy, one hunting the other. A cruel destiny. She is the last descendent of her clan. The last Evenstar.”

Arya chews on her lower lip. She still has a family. And the young girl doesn’t dare return to them after running off to chase adventures with Syrio. And here is a woman who lost all of her family and has no place to return to, no family left.

_Well, safe for Jaime, it seems._

“After her father died, arrangements were made to move her to the capitol… She never told me why and how, but it seems that the treasuries were emptied by the castellan who had worked for her father while he was still alive, so that nothing but debt remained by the time good Lord Selwyn took his last breath, having trusted too much in the man he thought of as his right-hand man…,” Tyrion says, but then stops, frowning. “Why am I telling you again?”

“Oh, because you said it’s important that I know all the details,” Arya says quickly, swiftly filling the short man’s cup to the rim again. He takes another swig.

“Did I? Huh, curious,” he mutters, his grimace deepening.

“So, Lady Hawk, I mean Lady Brienne came to the capitol. What happened then?” Arya asks, urging him to continue.

“She moved in with a relative, I think… or was it her Septa from childhood? I can’t recall… I just know that the woman she came to stay at was not very fond of her, that she told me. She never listened to what Brienne wanted. She was fine wedding the girl off to a man of sixty years of age, imagine that.”

“How did she bypass that betrothal?” Arya asks.

“Broke some hearts… and bones,” Tyrion snickers into his cup.

“That sounds like her,” Arya chuckles softly.

“You’d have no idea…,” he sighs. “In any case. You might have noticed, but she is not the fairest of them all in terms of looks, but she is fair of heart, you know. The fairest heart I have ever seen. She didn't have much, since they lived in very basic conditions in King's Landing, but she never lamented, never complained, never spoke ill of the woman even though she was not kind to her. She labored hard ignored those who treated her with nothing but scorn around the city, often enough mistaking her for a man. She always was a wild thing, dressing up as a boy most of the time. And on that one thing, she always disobeyed.”

“On what thing?” Arya wants know.

“She took part in the melees hosted at the capitol. Brienne had collected money for a long time to afford a dented armor one of the smiths gave her for small coin, alongside a sword that should have been too heavy for anyone to lift, and yet… she kept winning with it. Though no one knew that she was a woman beating them. She never lifted her helmet, stating each time that it got a dent that required a smith to open,” Tyrion recounts, flashing a smile, only to be replaced by a weary, sad sigh. “Well… and that was when they first met…”

“Jaime and she,” Arya translates.

“Yes. In the midst of a battlefield. And she knocked him into the dust,” Tyrion says with a smirk flaring back up again at the memory.

“Really?” Arya asks with a grin. She always wanted to take part in one of the melees, but her father kept her on the stands right next to her sister, who only ever waited for one of the knights to drop a rose in her lap as a token of their affection.

While he allowed her to train with Syrio eventually, he found it too great a risk for his daughter to compete in such dangerous battles as the melees.

“Really,” Tyrion affirms, laughing, sipping more wine. “He still laments about this to this very day... well, till the day I last saw him, that is…”

Tyrion shakes his head with a sad smile, downing the last bit in the cup. Arya rushes up to refill it before he can smash the next one, because that is the last she found, and she needs his tongue to stay loose.

“But what happened that it came to _this_?” Arya questions.

“Do you know who he is?” he asks.

Arya shrugs her shoulders. “Well, Jaime.”

“No, I mean his last name.”

“He’s… never given it to me,” Arya answers.

“His name is Jaime Lannister,” Tyrion tells her.

“Jaime _Lannister_?! The former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?" Arya gapes. She had a feeling once or twice, right when he rescued her outside the gates of King’s Landing when the young man muttered his name before being murdered by Meryn Trant in cold blood, but truth be told, she never saw the man’s face.

While he was still Lord Commander when Arya came to King’s Landing with her sister and father, they were informed that news from Casterly Rock had reached them about Tywin Lannister having fallen ill. Thus, he was given leave to be with his father. The Queen herself, by that time still wife to Robert Baratheon, had not gone with him, arguing that her place was right here, to where she belonged, holding her husband’s hand, but for a moment there, Arya saw that she only ever looked at the Iron Throne on which the fat man had sat when they arrived in the great hall of the Red Keep. Thus, Arya never saw the face of Jaime Lannister – or rather, she did, but didn’t know that this man’s face belonged to Jaime Lannister all along.

"The one and only. But he is also the Queen's brother... as am I,” the dwarf says.

"... You are Tyrion Lannister. The Imp,” Arya says slowly.

“Yes. And you are Arya Stark, if I am not mistaken,” Tyrion says with a smirk.

Arya blinks at him – those three were faster at discovering her than the whole of King’s Landing. “You…”

“Travelers come by every now and then, and they shared in stories about the boyish daughter of Lord Eddard Stark that disappeared in the city before my dear sister climbed the Iron Throne. And I pride myself being rather sharp, even while clearly drunk. Or maybe precisely because I am drunk.”

“Oh.”

“Where was I?”

“Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime. How they met and all,” Arya tells him quickly.

“Oh yes, that… By the time you came to the capitol, I was at Casterly Rock, dutifully going about my business as the one available, if unloved, son of the patriarch of House Lannister. Even if it was just about the drains,” Tyrion chuckles. “Then our father got very ill. So I wrote to my family to inform them of his condition. And Jaime came as fast as he could, by which time you were already at the capitol. He stayed for a while… because Father didn’t get any better, we knew that, so it only seemed right to stay until he passed away. I will not lie, I had no tears to spare for when he closed his eyes, but as it turns out, the destiny he had assigned to me was not as bad as the one my sister had in mind for me.”

“What do you mean?” Arya asks.

“Shortly after Father passed away, I was summoned to the capitol. Robert, too, had passed away, I learned. And Cersei was proclaimed Queen of the Seven Kingdoms in her own right, as his heir. I thought that she would either give the Rock into my care, or inform me that she would rather die than see me, like Father likely would have wanted her to, and perhaps offer it to Jaime instead… release him from his vows to continue our legacy… but nothing of that sort happened,” Tyrion says, shaking his head.

“Then what _did_ happen?” Arya asks.

“She said that she spoke to the Small Council and that there was no way that I could have children of such deformity as I have it… no more Lannister Monsters… as she poignantly put it…,” Tyrion says, blinking against the tears standing in his eyes, the wound of that remark never healing. “She said that she would want to give me a good purpose, serving my interests. So she sent me to a septry to become a septon… Though it was well known that I was neither celibate nor willing to be free of sin. I drink and whore. That’s just what I am. That’s just I what I do. Even now I have the girls from the brothel house next time come here for some extra coin… She said that I could read all the books I wanted. And I will give her that much, that was what kept me a bit sane over the years… But the thing is… Cersei just wanted to know me away, _that_ I know. She always hated me... like Father.”

“Didn’t Jaime do anything about it?” Arya asks. Now that she got to know the man, she can’t imagine he would just stand by without even trying to get his own brother out of such misery – he even came for a young girl he barely knows.

“He tried. He talked to her over and over. Asked her to make me castellan of the Rock, tried to reason with her that they cannot leave the Rock, our ancestral home, abandoned, now that she is Queen and without children to succeed to the honor. She didn’t budge, bull-headed thing she is… but I budged in the end,” he sighs.

Arya grimaces at that. “How so?”

_And why?_

“I went. I told my brother that it was alright. That I would keep reading, and that they could name me castellan once it was time, once my sister had come to reason. We Lannisters always found a way to cheat the law after all,” Tyrion snorts. “At least that is what I told myself.”

“Why did you?” Arya asks, refilling the next cup.

“I was done fighting. I was done losing. A Lannister’s pride. I wanted to leave with my head held high. Though in the end, it just meant I gave in…”

“And… what of the two now? How do they fit into that story?” Arya wants to know.

“I am afraid it’s no story,” he argues. “For that, it’s far too real.”

“Then what happened – _for real_?”

“I took up my service as a novice of the Faith, but to cut my sister, I let myself be transferred to the one closest to the Red Keep possible. I had a septon on the outskirt of the city teach me. Which meant I was still close with Jaime, so I thought… maybe it’s not as bad as it may seem. But the Seven will know that I was wrong with that. So very wrong.” He shakes his head, glancing back at the statues ahead of him.

“How so?”

“Fortune was not on Jaime’s and Brienne’s side ever since… You see, my brother joined the Kingsguard for my sister, actually.”

“Did he?” Arya tilts her head to the side.

“She suggested it to him, or so I learned by a time it was long since too late. Jaime was _quite_ devoted to her by the time. And he wanted to be a knight… so… it’s not that he was against lordship, it’s simply that he fancied a knight’s life more. Jaime was merely of age by the time he put on the White. He was a lad, foolish and didn’t know what he was heading into,” Tyrion exhales. “They never should have let him make that decision.”

“You mean the Mad King,” Arya whispers.

“I mean the Mad King whom my brother slew to defend the city. I mean King Robert, who readily took him into his services and only ever belittled my brother, as he belittled my sister. And I mean Queen Cersei, who gave him the final blow,” Tyrion tells her.

“So he joined for her sake.”

“To be with her,” Tyrion confirms. “To be by her side, to protect her. But what was between them… it had fallen asleep already by the time that Cersei wed the King. Something died inside my brother alongside mad Aerys Targaryen. That is all I can say. It was a grief neither of us understood, a pain only he could carry… However, Jaime remained devoted to my sister’s protection nevertheless. He was always like that. He always tried to protect us, from each other if he had to. Jaime always wants to protect the people he loves and cares about.”

“She’s said the same.”

“Small wonder. She is _just_ like him in that regard,” Tyrion exhales, tossing another cup away. “Well, that meant that Jaime was fine with keeping watch under Robert, even though he no longer felt for Cersei what never should have driven him to take the White in the first place. He was fine having no children and inheriting no lands. He had his family with him, so what did it matter? Jaime was devoted to my sister’s protection, while he knew me more or less safe at the Rock. Things were not good for him, but they were… bearable. Well, and then he ran into this mannish woman who beat him in a melee, and that changed everything.”

“In how far?” Arya asks.

Tyrion lets his gaze wander up, as though to let the memories rain down on him. “It was like he came back to life, as though light returned to a place so very dark… I’ve never seen anything quite like that. He had grown almost distant over the years after Aerys’s death. But Brienne had him smile again, they jested, they fought, not just on the battlefield, but in all realms of life. I could see that my brother was doing so much better again. And that was a time when I thought that maybe… things were taking the right turn for once. Cersei had what she wanted. I may not have had what I wanted, but… I had something I could live with, wine and books. And my brother… he had Brienne… and she had him. It could have been all so perfectly imperfect, if not for fortune playing their cruel games with them to take that shred of happiness as well.”

He looks at the small statues of the Seven. “You cursed them for reasons I don’t know.”

Tyrion takes another swig from the cup, blinking. “Where was I?”

Arya rushes up to refill his cup almost to the rim. “How Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime were cursed.”

“Oh, right. _That_ … Well, the two started to spend a great deal of time together, you might imagine. Whenever he was off duty, my brother would leave the White in his chamber and be out there with Brienne. In the training yard, sometimes helping her sneak into a melee. Those kinds of things,” Tyrion explains in a light tune at first, but then adds with loathing, “And then… I screwed it up.”

“How would you?” Arya asks.

How would some sentences spoken bring about such havoc?

“One time, they had trained with sharp swords in the yard, and Jaime had managed to cut her in the thigh by accident. Brienne refused to have the Queen’s maester take a look at her, so Jaime brought her to me instead, knowing that I had studied those books with care over time. He halfway _carried_ her, even though she is quite heavy. It didn’t matter to him. Jaime would have carried her across the city, I am sure. He reminded me to tend to her well, _naturally_. Brienne tossed something at him to make him leave, _naturally_ , when he wanted to stay, reminding him that this is something he should not see as a man of the Kingsguard. So… Jaime waited outside, likely fuming and pacing.”

“That sounds like him,” Arya chuckles softly.

“He was always very protective of her, despite his complaints about Brienne all the while. That man is a fool, like most of us,” Tyrion snorts.

“As I keep telling him,” Arya huffs with a smirk.

“Well, the cut was quite bad and ran very deep. Brienne was a bit dizzy from the blood loss. I gave her something to ease her pain while I worked on the stitches. She didn’t take the dreamwine well. While standing as tall as a giantess, and as strong as a bear, she wasn’t good holding her liquor…,” he says, chewing on his lower lip. “Well, and so I worked on her wounds, while she… turned quite talkative.”

“Sounds unlike her,” Arya comments, quickly refilling Tyrion’s cup, to keep the words pouring out of him.

“It was, but sometimes dreamwine has odd effects on the person who drinks it. With her, it simply loosened up her tongue. And I… listened while doing the stitches,” Tyrion sighs. “Brienne told me things that were not meant for my ears, things she never would have admitted aloud, if not for the dreamwine. But the pain she suffered from was far greater than the one the cut ever could have given her, so I learned… Once she realized what had happened, Brienne demanded of me that I keep her secrets. She made me swear it. By the Seven. By my honor… whatever a dwarf’s honor is worth… And I promised her that I would. And I did, for a time."

" _For a time_?" Arya repeats.

“You may noticed, I drink… a lot,” Tyrion says, gesturing at the cup in his hand, which promptly falls to the ground to smash to pieces. Arya quickly grabs another to refill and hand to him, saying, “It never would have crossed my mind.”

“Right. Well, and when you talk… it loosens up your tongue… It was strange. Some time after that little incident, a messenger came to the Great Sept of Baelor, where I was readying myself for the services I knew were soon going to be my duties… and that messenger demanded of me to come along. He told me that the Queen wanted to see me. At first I was afraid that she was about to send me away, if not worse, but when I arrived in her chamber in the Red Keep… there was food on the table. Two cups of wine were prepped up. The candles were lit. She didn’t wear her crown. She gave my hand a light squeeze as I came inside. She pulled the chair back for me and had set up my small step so that I could sit down swiftly… I asked her what she wanted of me. Cersei said she wanted nothing of me other than have meal with me.”

“And you believed her,” Arya scoffs.

“I was suspicious, but… sometimes you _want_ to believe, you know. I remained suspicious, simply drank, kept myself guarded. Cersei talked to me about her day, about Father, and how she didn’t come to the Rock to tell him goodbye… and that she knew that he hated me. We kept drinking. You must know, my sister can swallow about as much as I can. The one family trait we seem to share in. To my great shock… my sister admitted to her wrongs to me. Which was new. Terrifying, almost. Cersei said that she learned from Father, that she missed our mother, and that this was what drove her for so many years… She even apologized to me. And believe it or not… it was a joyous night,” Tyrion says, glancing to the statues, his eyes glistening. His gaze wanders to the statue of the Mother for a moment too long.

“For the first time in my life, I felt like my sister didn't hate me. Like she… cared about me. For a night I felt a love I had never known, or so I thought. I got drunk on the wine and that feeling. We talked about all kinds of things that we never spoke about before. Because she wanted to know about me, she… she cared for my opinion, you know… asked about what I thought about her rule, about her policy… And then… and then she said that she may have a way around it… so that I don't have to become a septon after all! And that had me perk my ears,” Tyrion admits, twisting the clay cup between his fingers, close to his chest.

“What did she mean to do about that?” Arya asks. “She was the one who got you there in the first place.”

“She said that she needed me. At the Rock. That Jaime spoke right about it that it’s unwise to leave Casterly Rock in the hands of strangers. That she can only trust her family with this important matter. While the vow could not be undone, which I understood, Cersei said that maybe it’s time that I take over the Rock, like a Lord Hand, in all but name and title. Because that… could have been arranged even with my vows… The implication being that I would serve as a castellan of sorts at the Rock,” Tyrion tells her, only to toss the cup away, watching the rest of the wine spill out over the cobwebs and the dust, painting new patterns in the darkness.

“And I was happy, so, so happy,” he continues. “For a moment, I thought that my sister was offering me an apology that I had waited for in years. That she meant to give me back as much as she could, within the limitations of the laws, so that I would get my right as a son of Tywin Lannister. That I would be home… I was so drunk on that feeling. I can’t tell you how loud the song of a sister’s love echoed in my heart that very night… the wine sang and I sang along. It was the best wine I ever tasted.”

“And what does that have to do with Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime?” Arya asks, because that is what still doesn’t fit together in her mind, no matter how she twists or turns it.

“We kept talking… and Cersei asked about Jaime and Brienne. She said she had seen the woman around the palace so often, but that our brother was all _mysterious_ and _secretive_ about her. _For no reason_ , she laughed, and I thought my sister laughed because she meant it, that she thought it funny that Jaime meant to hide Brienne from her. I thought Cersei laughed at the fact that Jaime thought he had to hide his bond with Brienne from her, fearing her reaction. I didn’t understand that she was laughing because of… quite something else,” Tyrion exhales, taking another swig.

“So she knew that Jaime and Brienne were close. So what of it?” Arya asks.

“Cersei said she wanted to know more about the woman who took up all of our brother’s attention. It was a good-natured talk, and so I told her that which I knew about her. That she was the daughter of Lord Selwyn Tarth, a noble lady to…,” he means to recount yet again, but Arya interrupts him gently, “We had that. But what was the turning point in this?”

Tyrion bows his head at that, the cup falling out of his hand to roll across the heptagon, leaving a red trail of wine behind. “I told her the secrets Brienne told me while drunk on the dreamwine.”

Arya gapes. “Why would you do that?”

“I thought nothing of it. Those were no great sorts of secrets… but for Cersei, they were... And soon thereafter, I realized I had tried the bitterest wine known to humankind. Everything went so fast. A man, the High Sparrow, was named High Septon by my sister… After all, I was off that hook…,” Tyrion continues. “Like she had promised me… I thought all was going in the right direction.”

“And then?”

“And then… and then… I don’t know exactly.”

“You can’t be serious,” Arya pouts, rolling her eyes.

All that talk without getting to the point here? He can’t mean for that. Arya needs answers, and she needs them now.

“I mean… I wasn’t there when it happened. I never saw it with my own eyes. I just know what my brother told me, and that was scarce enough. Too fresh was the pain he had suffered… What he told me was this: Short time after the High Sparrow started to spread anxiety over sin throughout the city, they… took the two into custody.”

The young girl gapes. “What? _Why_?”

“I don’t know what the exact charges were. No one ever told me. I just know that they said that Jaime and Brienne had broken his Kingsguard vow together, by laying with each other. Brienne was tossed into the black cells, whereas Jaime was to remain in his chamber. I came to visit as soon as I heard of that. My brother was in a frenzy, told me over and over that I had to get Brienne out, that those were all false charges raised against them, which _of course_ they were. Brienne was and is a maiden, still, but no one cared… My sister refused to see me, no matter how much I begged her to come to reason. But she didn’t… the High Sparrow didn’t. No one did…”

He looks back at the statues, shaking his head. The people he thought were going to get him out of the confines of his vow were the ones firmly setting him into constraints that he could no longer escape from – the guilt of having betrayed the people Tyrion came to care about.

“And what happened next?” the young girl asks, chewing on her lower lip.

While she does not yet know the details of this, she can well imagine that the High Sparrow, if he were to be informed of a knight of the Kingsguard having laid with a woman, would readily damn them. Ever since he came to rise, that man saw the sin in everything, in everyone, even those who are free of it in that regard.

“As far as I know… they said that the one way for Brienne to prove innocence was to prove… _just_ that, and have the Queen’s most trusted maester, Qyburn, examine her,” Tyrion continues, sucking the inside of his cheek into his mouth. “Jaime told Cersei that he would not allow it for that bastard to examine, let alone touch her, and that they had his word for it that they didn't lay with each other. But it was no use...”

Tyrion motions at Arya to refill the cup, which she does. “When I couldn’t reach out to my sister, I went to the High Septon instead, hoping to reason with my… _brother_. However, the High Sparrow said that the only way for Brienne to cleanse herself of her sin was to confess and atone, if she could not or did not want to bring proof for her apparent innocence.”

“In what way?” Arya asks.

“A walk of shame.”

The young girl grimaces, shaking her head. “But she didn’t do anything.”

“And she couldn’t bring proof without staining her honor this way or the other. Jaime demanded to talk to Cersei another time in private, hoping to sway her. But Cersei went on to claim that she saw something the night before they took her into custody and that there was blood somewhere… or something like that… Jaime never told me what that was about, because he didn’t deny to that charge, but he denied to having broken his oath and besmirching Brienne’s honor. And there is no second of a doubt in me that this is nothing but the truth. But Cersei wasn’t having it,” Tyrion says, shaking his head.

Because the Queen gets what the Queen wants. It’s just that simple.

“Gods.” Arya mutters, rolling her shoulders against the tension building up in her limbs.

It’s small wonder to the young girl now that Jaime wants to see the Queen dead, even though he apparently used to be so devoted to his sister, as Tyrion told her. To trick her own brothers like that, to force Brienne into such a thing and staining her honor? There is hardly anything she could have done that would have cut Jaime more, for all Arya can judge.

“Cersei offered to lower the charges for him if he sold out Brienne. That she could talk to the High Sparrow. That he would be by her side again, as her most trusted Lord Commander… Jaime told her to go to the Seven Hells for that,” Tyrion says with a small, sad grin tugging at his lips.

“I would have guessed as much,” Arya says, returning the sad smile.

“He wouldn’t ever have done that to Brienne. But _that_ … hurt my sister’s pride, because there stood the man who had given up all he could have had, just to be by her side, and now Jaime started to disobey. How dare he? So she demanded of him to stay by her side, as he had once promised her when he took on the White, and forget about Brienne forever. Jaime said no again. And my sister doesn’t take no for an answer. And then…,” Tyrion says, stopping for a moment.

“And then?” Arya repeats, filling his cup back up.

“And then… He did something brave that only made matters worse. He told Cersei that he would undergo the trial alongside Brienne, unless she dropped the charges against them. And Jaime couldn’t have cut her pride more than that. Because he was willing to face the same walk of atonement, if only just to stay by that beast’s side, as she called Brienne. He even offered to take on the Black, he even offered his own life, but the Queen refused,” Tyrion recounts the darkest of hours of his life, of when his brother, with tears in his eyes, pacing in his chamber, told him what their sister wouldn’t let his brother know.

And all the while, he could do nothing. Because he brought that upon them by tasting wine that tasted sweet but turned bitter in the end.

“And did they… were they put to trial?” Arya asks. “Because I remember no such trial. I think I would have heard about that.”

“Not to the Trial of Faith that should have happened according to the legal proceedings. Not to the Trial by Combat, because they would have won. No, it had to be something else… but that is where things grow hazy, because Jaime never told me all of it. The one time he spoke of it, I admitted to my part in it, and he never spoke to me again since…,” Tyrion tells her, biting down on the inside of his cheek.

“But _what_ happened that he is a wolf and she a hawk?” Arya demands to know.

What is that one missing piece?

“Jaime only ever told me that Cersei, the High Sparrow and Qyburn came into his chamber at sunset… And they dragged Brienne with her. It must have been a gruesome sight, for all I could see on my brother’s face the last time he spoke of it to me… though he never told me what exactly happened…,” Tyrion says. “What he told me is this: Cersei accused Brienne of witchcraft, then, to make matters worse. She said that she had seen her transform into a hawk, and that she probably put a spell on Jaime to make him lay with that ‘ugly beast.’ And then… the play began, thanks to my sister’s Lord Hand.”

“You mean… that maester, he…,” Arya gapes.

“He always meddled with the dark sides of science and magic. Always has a fancy, a dangerous kind of curiosity for it. He did the deed somehow, did Cersei’s bidding. Jaime only ever said they tricked him like me, just that he drank nothing, only ever washed himself of it,” Tyrion says, wetting his lips.

Arya looks back to the chamber in which Brienne lies, not even daring to begin to imagine what that must have been like.

“So they waited until the sun set and… my brother became a beast. It was a show, and it worked, leaving Brienne with no defense against the Faith… the High Sparrow was convinced that she was using magic to do that to Jaime. And so he and Cersei agreed that such practice could not be judged by the Faith because people would likely learn from that and at worst copy it… So they rid themselves of her, whereas Jaime was offered to atone for his sins through prayer and meditation… Cersei’s plan to make him fall back in line…”

“Oh Gods,” Arya sucks in a deep breath. To think that someone, your own family no less, would go that far to see you part from a person you consider your friend? Arya always knew that the Queen was not quite right inside her head, but that goes beyond any measure.

“Cersei came to him again one of the following days. She was mild to him. Let me see him. Talked sweet to him. That it was not his fault, that it was Brienne’s doing all along, but now she is gone and she will try to find a way to undo the curse Brienne put on him. My sister said to him that if he did as she told him, he would be a free man soon again, to be by her side forever, right next to the Throne, to where he belonged… Cersei said that if she can't have him, no one will. And Jaime agreed, to let her believe the words true. Because my brother, even though he would never admit that himself… he can be cunning if he needs to be,” he says with a sad smile.

“He is still more of a coot, but he is not dumb, that much I can say,” Arya confirms, trying to bring a bit of lightness back to the conversation, though she knows that this is rather futile, considering the cups of lead he actually drops alongside his words.

And they don’t shatter, they simply wear heavy on the heart.

“That same day, Jaime had me summoned to tell me of what had happened. He told me to search for a solution for that curse, to go over my books. I promised him readily that I would…,” Tyrion says, but then bows his head. “And then… I told him of my involvement. That was when he cast me out, said that I should forget about it, that I destroyed everything, and that the next time he sees me… he would kill me. And Jaime meant that. He pushed me out the door and shut it in my face. And that’s the last time I saw my brother… Once night came… he took flight. The wolf jumped out the window to the roof below and ran over the rooftops until he was out of the city, out of her clutches, and away from the brother who had betrayed him for some cups of wine.”

Tyrion bows his head, sniffling as the tears drop into the cup in his hand.

“But why that curse?” Arya asks. “Why not… why not kill her?”

“Cersei had ordered for her execution, that I know. Jaime thought Brienne was dead by the time he took flight… But my sister didn’t just want her to pay, she wanted Brienne to suffer. My sister wants her enemies to lose all that they hold dear, she wants to destroy them, annihilate them – and death is not enough to achieve that,” Tyrion explains, his voice slightly shaking.

“Because then… she would have had to fear that they would unite in death,” Arya says slowly. It’s mad, that much she can say, but it fits into all that she knows about the woman who grew too sure in herself, too devoted to herself and the Iron Throne.

“Precisely. Cersei wanted to teach Jaime a lesson, and so… having that curse cast… it seemed like the one appropriate lesson to teach him, to bring him back to her. Because this curse means that they are eternally apart, even in the afterlife, in every possible world,” Tyrion whispers. “By day, Brienne is the majestic hawk, showing him the way, and by night, my brother is the wolf howling at the moon, the one part of the sigil her House once bore, as his heart bleeds for her. They do not remember what goes on while they are in their animal shape. They never touch in the flesh. There is this split second when the sun rises and the moon falls that they can almost touch, but just almost. A marvelously cruel destiny."

"Always together, eternally apart,” Arya mutters, and Tyrion nods his head sadly. “Quite poetic of my sister. Who could have guessed?”

He takes another swig of wine, tossing the last cup away as well, watching it shatter into a thousand pieces.

"As long as the sun rises and sets, as long as there is day and night, and for as long as both shall live… that will be their condition," Tyrion goes solemnly. "And all of that because of me and the bloody wine! One should think that it'd keep me from drinking now, but it's the only comfort I have left in life. My own brother hates me. My sister never loved me, just used me to get to Brienne… Gods, my own brother hates me.”

Tyrion starts to cry at that all over, rocking back and forth in his seat, grabbing his unkempt curls as the pain he tries to keep nebulous in his mind thanks to the wine he consumes is right back in his heart, overtaking even the great mind of Tyrion Lannister.

Arya wants to offer some words of comfort, but she finds none. Instead, she fills up the last cup to the rim and places the clay container beside him. She withdraws from the dwarf thereafter, letting him cry the tears he normally seems to drown in wine instead of actually shedding them.

And if anything comes of now having heard that story, then it is that Arya comes to the realization that she cannot run away again, must not, actually.

It may be that she is not responsible for their curse, but she now understands Jaime’s desperation, driving him to where he stands now, she understands the desperation he feels to see those people punished who took all that mattered to them away from them. Because, thinking about it, Jaime may have threatened her more often than not, but never carried it out. Jaime, contrary to what he may have said, never harmed her, he only saved her and provided food and shelter for her. And tied her up this one time, _fine_. But to her protection yet again. And Brienne? She was kind to her as well, untied her even though she seemingly knew the risks. Arya ran away from her family because she didn’t feel like she belonged with them, but those two? They belong.

They belong together.

And Arya tends to think that Braavos can wait until that is sorted out.


	5. Truce, Trust, and Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Brienne exchange stories. 
> 
> Cersei Lannister has two visitors late at night. 
> 
> All of them remain somewhat restless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> So, this chapter is meant to give background on some characters. As the shredding continues, I keep adding where I think I need to do that to make the story fit into the context I built up narratively. 
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this chapter!
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

After all that she heard, Arya takes her time trying to sort all of this out inside her head, whereas Tyrion eventually cried himself into drunken slumber, surrounded by his clay cups holding no actual relief, but only just a way for him to drown his own sorrows, making him numb to the pain he must be feeling all the while.

_A man turned into a wolf by night, and a woman turned into a hawk by day, imagine that!_

Arya still has a hard time trying to make sense of all this. While Tyrion’s confessions confirmed what she had assumed, the young girl must say that now that she knows those things as true, they didn’t stop irritating, if not scaring her. To think that someone would do that to her own brother, to think that someone would go that far only to do what? See the two apart? Just what would that achieve for the Queen?

What does Cersei Lannister have from having those two always together, eternally apart? She has the Throne, she has the Crown, so truly, what else would she want?

Noises coming from the chamber in which Brienne was brought into calls the girl’s attention, so Arya abandons the passed-out dwarf in favor of what is going on inside the room, not taking any chances anymore, considering what happened in the open field earlier.

However, going inside, the young girl is surprised to find Lady Brienne sitting on the hay, struggling to lace a roughspun tunic Tyrion seemingly left in the room for her to change into, alongside some woolen breeches that he seemingly has lying around due to this being a septry that maybe was occupied one of these days, which Brienne already put on.

The tall, blonde woman with blue eyes looks less than pleased, rolling her injured shoulder, working on the laces with twitching fingers, but she turns her head abruptly in the girl’s direction.

“You are awake,” Arya notes quietly.

“I didn’t plan on… _not_ being awake, but my body stopped behaving itself the way I want it to a long time ago, so perchance I should stop hoping for that day or rather night to come,” the woman says through gritted teeth as she manages to finish the knot on the tunic.

And that even though Brienne always prided herself having control, self-restraint. In the battlefield, with visor down and sword in hand, it was her endurance, her apparent patience and calm that only truly unfolded in the dust of the battlegrounds, that brought Brienne victory over a body that she could not help. An ugly body, but a sturdy one, and that was what she took comfort in, the control she could exert over it through training and discipline, but all of that is gone now. Ever since that night, Brienne learned that there is no way of training or preparing your body for growing wings, forgetting who you are and what you are, and climbing into the sky until nightfall.

“I don’t think you should be up already,” the young girl comments with a grimace.

“Is that what Tyrion told you?” the older woman scoffs. “I already said the same thing to him: It takes more to beat me than some bloody bolt.”

She was beaten by the Crown and the Faith as they joined forces against Jaime and her. Compared to that, a bolt is all but a scratch. Compared to that suffering, all pain is not worth mentioning.

“But still, you should get some rest,” Arya insists, careful to keep her voice lowered alongside her head.

“I can rest once I am dead,” Brienne sighs, moving her lower jaw.

They have no time to lose, no time to spend, and Brienne shall be damned if she lets those times escape her that give her a chance of moving, moving forward, of doing what she always wanted to do, but ended up failing far too often: To protect the ones she cares about most.

“And where would you want to go now?” the young girl asks, not yet sure what to expect coming from Lady Brienne, bearing in mind what happened earlier in the day, and what she did last night to escape her. Because Arya cannot imagine that the tall woman takes kindly being lied to the way she did.

“You likely know where I would be heading to,” Brienne tells her, not looking at the dark-haired girl at all, instead still fussing with her tunic and her own body, which prevents her from moving the way she wants to.

This is just like the leather cords and she hates those with a burning passion already.

“I don’t think Jaime would want you to put such a strain on yourself. I mean… he is out there. I heard him howl… since he is a wolf right now, otherwise he would probably be cursing all the while, but you know what I mean,” Arya says with a grimace.

“And he might be injured far greater than he let on. _Just a flesh wound_. That man could have his hand severed off and still claim it to be only just a bruise,” Brienne grumbles. She had that plenty of times when they could still see each other with their own eyes, and not just through the eyes of the animals they become by night and day. And while some things are hazy after the curse was out in the world, Jaime spent a great deal of time with a hand injury, wanting to have her and himself believe that it was nothing.

_Though it was not nothing, not at all._

“I really think you should stay here. Jaime will be furious otherwise,” Arya points out to her.

“And little do I care for what drives Jaime Lannister furious,” the older woman tells her with a snarl.

Beating him in a melee made him furious, too, talking back had him angry as well, calling him out on his decisions, demanding promises of him that he didn’t want to give, all those things had him boiling underneath the skin, and never did Brienne let that stop herself from doing it anyway.

Because some things are necessary.

Some things just need to be done.

Some things she has to do, and the night is the only time where she can act, now injured or not.

“But you don’t have a sword. Jaime kept it. You would be out there, vulnerable and…,” Arya means to say, but Brienne cuts her off, “With all due respect, but I care little about _your_ opinion regarding the matter.”

“And I am not speaking on my own behalf, I am speaking on… on Jaime’s. He was deadly afraid for your wellbeing when he sent me off to bring you here,” Arya argues, chewing on her lower lip. After all that she heard from Tyrion, she understands ever the better just why Jaime acted the way he did back when he sent her off to the septry. After all that they were put through, he must be wrestling with so many, so deep-running fears of losing her.

“Well, hardly surprising,” Brienne mutters.

_It’s always been like that. And that has always been part of the problem._

Jaime always meant to protect her, even though he didn’t have to because Brienne does not rely on anyone to keep her safe, she can do that well herself. And on the one thing she failed to shield herself from, when the Crown and the Faith haunted her and chased her out of her own life, Brienne wished Jaime would have just kept silent and taken the deal they offered.

_Because then **he** would be safe, at least. But no such luck with Jaime Lannister, the bullheaded bastard he is. _

“I am just saying… that he would want you to take at least tonight to gather your strengths again. I saw his wound myself, it was not nearly as bad as the injury you suffered…” Arya replies, before adding more quietly, “because of me.”

“It was a bolt. Fired by one of the goldcloaks after us, was it not?” Brienne asks. “I recognize their weapons. They have a particular kind.”

Because Brienne saw them many times when Jaime took her to the armories of the Red Keep to show her some secret treasures, back when all seemed to go right for once in her life.

_And Gods know that I was mistaken to ever dare to believe that being true._

“Yes, but…,” Arya means to say, but the older woman won’t let her, “That means it was _not_ because of you. It would be because of you if you had fired the weapon. _Did_ you fire the crossbow?”

“No,” Arya mutters.

“Then you didn’t do it,” Brienne argues simply.

“But you wouldn’t have gotten injured if I had not told those lies,” Arya insists.

“Maybe not… maybe they would have caught us some other way, though. They caught us when we least expected it, after all…,” the older woman says, running her left hand through her short-cropped hair. “So… who is to say what would or wouldn’t have been if for one circumstance changed?”

“Yeah, Tyrion told me… some about that,” Arya answers quietly, kicking at some invisible stones on the ground, not knowing where to move or how.

Brienne leans her head back. “ _Of course_ he did. The man can’t seem to keep his mouth shut once he opened it to the taste of wine.”

“You know he didn’t do it on purpose, right?” Arya asks quietly, barely moving her lips apart as she speaks.

“ _Of course_ I know. And the ones who bear most guilt are those who judged us without justice, who cursed us with this burden. And yet, you might be able to imagine my _disappointment_ with this man regardless of that fact,” Brienne argues. “Tyrion swore to me that he would keep my secrets, and he did not. He broke that promise to me. And to make matters worse… he told the one person he truly never should have spoken to about this in _any_ way.”

Back in the day, she knew without Jaime even having to say it out loud. It was the way he moved, the way his body went rigid when it came to his sister, when it came to how the Queen might be thinking about their friendship. Until Cersei stepped before her to judge her for crimes she never committed, Brienne never saw the woman up-close, never spoke to her. Jaime had seen to that. And that was what told her that Cersei was not supposed to be involved in their personal affairs.

And then, Tyrion told her much more than he ever should have.

And that set an avalanche into motion.

And that avalanche has not come to a halt to this very day.

The stones keep rolling, tumbling, falling, burying their old world, their old life, under rubble that they won’t ever be able to remove again, because the stones are too heavy to move out of the way, the path now closed down.

_But that doesn’t mean **they** cannot fall victim to the same avalanche that they set forth with their actions. We can still send them tumbling and falling all the same. And perchance that is the one comfort that will remain for us after the deed is done._

Arya grimaces. That seems to be the cruel fate those people share in. That someone like Tyrion has an unwilling part in their downfall that just won’t wash away, even if Brienne and presumably even Jaime knows that his little brother didn’t mean ill.

It just doesn’t change anything about the simple circumstance that ill happened to them because Tyrion wanted to get drunk on the taste of wine and a sister’s love he has never known.

So here they are, broken, just in different places.

“It makes no difference anyway. I suppose you have no interest of telling the Queen or the High Sparrow where we are – and what we are up to,” Brienne comments, wincing as she tries to roll her injured shoulder. “If you are halfway sane not to head right back into the lion’s den from which you escaped with our aid.”

“No, I don’t. And no, I wouldn’t tell them anything,” Arya assures her.

“Well, I suppose that has to be good enough for me,” the blonde woman says with a determined yet sad grimace. “But now listen to me, Arya Stark of Winterfell.”

The young girl looks at her, blinking. “Yes?”

“You are a nobly born daughter to a high lord, and I still consider it my duty to know you protected. Not just because of your family’s name, but because you are worthy of more protection that the city of King’s Landing has given you for as long as you hid in its streets,” the blonde woman begins, her voice bearing a kind of strength that even the current weakness of her body fails to diminish in any way. “ _However_ , you lied to me for truly no good reason, because it was safety Jaime meant to offer you, a safe passage North, and you declined… You betrayed the fragile trust I dared to put in a girl who spoke of going home and being free of the shackles holding her.”

Arya bows her head, puckering her lips.

Because all of that is true. She saw something move inside Brienne when she started speaking of home, and Arya built on that, exploited that, carved it out with Needle and made a run for it after a stone’s throw.

_And that was wrong._

“… _And yet_ , you find yourself in a situation perhaps far severer due to your involvement with us. The _Faith Militant_ wouldn’t be after you if not for your meddling in our own affairs. And for that… we bear responsibility towards you and your safety regardless of the fragile trust you ended up betraying,” Brienne continues. “So… I tend to think that we may decide to leave that matter… simply aside. I have enough people to hate. Enough for two lives.”

And she is exhausted, simply exhausted.

Brienne has spent all this time hating, hating and longing for a life she knows won’t ever come back, for Jaime or for her.

And she is tired of it all.

“A truce?” Arya asks, blinking.

She didn’t dare to believe that Brienne would even look at her again after what happened. The woman looks more like the type of person who could run you into the ground like a stick, but then again, looks can be deceiving, can be misleading. Arya should know that the very best. She walked the streets of King’s Landing as Arry, as a boy called Mouse, and no one saw in her who she was all along, Arya Stark of Winterfell. And the same seems true for the woman sitting on the hay before her: Lady Brienne is much more than what meets the eye.

It’s as many people say, seemingly without knowing how true that statement can actually ring: _Beneath a rough exterior, there sometimes beats a heart of gold._

“You need trust to have a truce, or so I once told someone,” Brienne says quietly. “But yes… I will put my faith in you, then, hoping that you won’t disappoint it a second time.”

“I won’t, I promise. Today… taught me that,” Arya says with a grimace. “Had I just gone along, none of this would have happened.”

“Answer me this, though: To where would you have gone, had your plan succeeded? Because _that_ is what I can’t figure, no matter how much I ponder it. Where would you go if not King’s Landing – and not back home to your loved ones?” Brienne asks.

Arya licks her dry lips, realizing that now seems to be the time to complete the story she started earlier, the story she kept hidden inside herself for years. “To Braavos.”

“To be with that _dance teacher_ of yours,” Brienne suggests.

“That was the plan… _once_ ,” the young girl confirms faintly.

“Then what happened to that plan that you still hold on to it in times such as these?” the tall woman asks quietly.

While Brienne was never a very talkative person, she learned to miss speaking to people once her voice was taken and turned into a bird’s shriek. In the night, she sometimes speaks to the wolf, but what the beast with golden eyes understands and doesn’t understand is something Brienne will never know, because by day, all is forgotten again, locked away in a treasure chest hidden deep inside themselves that they can never open again. However, beyond that, Brienne rarely gets to have conversation with people, and she found out she missed that somewhat, to talk.

Back in the day, Jaime was the one who made her speak, who demanded her opinion, or who teased Brienne long and often enough to get a reply, a reaction out of her, even if just one of misgiving. It took some time, but eventually, Brienne found that there is a lot to be gained from not just listening to other people’s stories, but also sharing one’s own. So long it is a person you care about, a person you trust to keep those stories close to his heart, it is quite liberating.

However, those times have long since passed, and she gave up daring to think that she will ever tell a story to Jaime again. So hearing some other stories than those Brienne has of faded memories is nice for a change. It’s not the same as telling the former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard about the Sapphire Isle and the colorful glass windows in Evenfall Hall, but it’s something Brienne can remember again, something that won’t end up in the treasure chest she can’t touch.

“I wanted to be Syrio’s apprentice, you know. Go with him to Braavos, learn from the water dancers there… I thought that was my place to be,” Arya says, chewing on her lower lip pensively. “Syrio, _naturally_ , told me no… but then King Robert died and Father wanted to leave at once… I went into hiding, then. I waited until he was gone alongside my sister, and then a while longer, just to be sure. And then I went to Syrio. He was not pleased, told me that a girl would do better staying with her family instead of a _Braavosi infidel_ , because by that time, the High Sparrow started giving his speeches, gathering the smallfolk, and he was not appreciative of… those of other faiths. Syrio believed in the Many-Faced God, you see. Not that he was a strong believer, but he was not willing to bow to the teachings of the Faith of the Seven, so he was enemy in their eyes even though he was no strong advocate of the God he believed in.”

Arya finds that if Brienne wants to know her story, she is entitled to it, after the young girl stole it from a man who drowns his sorrows in the drink that loosens up his tongue, which seems to be part of the problem all along.

“And he let you stay?” Brienne asks.

“He tried to send message to my family, but I always shot down the bird he sent before it could take flight… no offense,” Arya says with a frown.

“Just because I was cursed to be a hawk by day doesn’t mean I feel empathy for every single bird in the sky,” Brienne tells her with what could almost be a smile, but not quite so. “I have other things to worry about, apparently.”

“Well, he gave up at some point. I kept showing up, no matter how often Syrio sent me away… And then… he stopped fighting it. We picked up my lessons again. I lived in his small house down Pigrun Alley. And I was… really happy. Syrio then said that he would leave King’s Landing. He told me again that now would be the time for Arya Stark to return to Winterfell, but I only ever replied that I was just a girl who wanted to learn the water dance. I don’t know why he agreed at last, but he did. Syrio showed me a coin, and said it would grant us safe passage across the Narrow Sea, because leaving was no longer that easy by that point of time.”

Brienne nods her head slowly. “The Queen shut down many trade routes, I remember that.”

“Yes, she wanted to know who was going and who was coming inside the city,” Arya agrees.

“In the name of the Faith, of course,” Brienne scoffs.

“ _Of course_. Well, Syrio said that the coin would grant us safe passage. _Valar morghulis_ …”

“All men must die,” Brienne says with a small smirk.

Arya tilts her head at that. “You speak Valyrian?”

“Not really, just picked up on some things over the years,” Brienne tells her with a grimace.

“Well, in any case, that was what he said was the password… Short before we meant to set sail… men of the Queensguard came to the house, led by Meryn Trant. Syrio told me to hide in the back. He only had a wooden sword from training… I didn’t hear what they said exactly. It was about his faith and then… that he didn’t pay taxes, I don’t know. They wanted to search the house. Syrio wouldn’t let them. Also… because of who was hiding in there. He gave me a sign which meant that I was supposed to run… and that is what I did. When I came back some time later… the house was a mess. They had gone through all of his belongings, had taken anything of value. There was blood on the ground and Syrio was gone.”

“To the black cells?” Brienne asks quietly.

“He was dead. Meryn Trant himself said so while patrolling the market some time later. He _boasted_ about it, laughed as he said Syrio’s name. And I wanted to kill him so badly at that moment, but… too many witnesses,” Arya says through gritted teeth.

She wanted to run Needle right through him, but she would have stood no chance back then, and so Arya, swallowed her anger and became the man’s shadow.

“I am sorry to hear that” Brienne tells her, offering a sympathetic glance.

“The coin was gone, too, you know. So I couldn’t go to Braavos. I asked by the docks. I tried to get on a ship in all secret, but they found me. They always did and threw me off. I tried to bargain with them, but the costs were high, because the risk was even higher to take a secret passenger along, granted that the goldcloaks were targeting the docks especially around that time, searching every small boat before it could set sail.”

“And still, you didn’t mean to return home,” Brienne points out, no longer a question, but still her way of trying to learn the reason why.

“No. I think… I think that is just over for me. You know, I had a choice to return to my family. Many chances indeed. And I used none. What would they be thinking of me if they were to find out? That their daughter, their sister, gave so little on them to leave them in the grief of having lost her, of her maybe being dead? All just to chase a certain way of living that her dance teacher offered. Not that they knew that, but… what if they were to know? How do you explain that to your family? How do you justify that?” Arya asks hoarsely, but then bows her head. “Then I rather… continue the path I have chosen and follow it until the very end.”

“So you mean to go to Braavos to continue that path,” Brienne says.

 The young girl nods her head. “Yes.”

“Well, I fear that we cannot just send you off to Braavos like that,” Brienne argues. “Knowing who you are where you belong.”

“No, I know, but I have some other more urgent business to attend now anyway, so we can very well delay that matter until later,” Arya says, daring to smirk at her, which has Brienne frowning at the young girl with growing irritation, asking, “Which would be?”

“Well, for now, it’s fulfilling my promise to Jaime,” Arya answers.

“You know it’s cheap to come me with promises to keep,” Brienne scoffs.

Arya shrugs her shoulders with a crooked grin. “So long it works?”

Brienne shakes her head with the faintest hint of a smile. “And by that you mean that you are supposed to watch me.”

“Jaime was rather specific about what he’d do to me if I let greater harm come to you after that mess by the open field,” the young girl answers.

“Jaime mastered the arts of threats long time ago. He threatens with what he is willing to carry out, but that doesn’t mean he is actually going to do it,” Brienne tells her.

“Well, I would rather not take any chances with him. He is rather swift with the sword after all,” Arya argues.

Brienne lets out a sigh as she lets her gaze wander upwards. “He used to be one of the finest swordsmen in all of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Well, you were still beating him,” Arya points out.

And that is something that she already admires about Lady Brienne, if not for the bravery and knightly virtues she displayed earlier on their shared voyage. Arya would have loved to see Brienne beat Jaime in a melee. His face must have been priceless.

“As I said, he was one of the best swords _men_ the world has ever seen. That doesn’t mean a swords _woman_ can’t knock him into the dust regardless of the fact,” Brienne says with a small smirk.

At least that is what she told him when she spoke to Jaime for the first time, right after the melee, in the stables where he had confronted her, not yet knowing that underneath the dented armor hid no member of his own sex.

Brienne will never forget that expression, how Jaime walked up to her, stomping his feet, telling her that she, or as he called her a “giant cheater wearing armor,” fought dirty and that he wants a rematch, only to see an ugly, mannish woman, but a woman no less, only wearing her tunic and breeches as she was about to change and steal away. It took him a couple of seconds, then Jaime’s eyes widened, and that was when Brienne threw her helmet at his face, saddled up and made a run for it on horseback, trying to escape what she thought would lead to a visit in the black cells.

But none of that ever happened. Jaime rode after her after he gathered himself and brought her to a halt eventually. And to Brienne’s shock, he assured her, no, promised her, that he would not give her away. And while he teased that he wouldn’t want to have to explain to people how he, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, ended up losing against a “stubborn wench” the likes of her, Brienne knew already at that moment that there was something else at play. It wasn’t just that he didn’t want to admit to having failed against a woman in a tourney. No, it was something Brienne had never quite witnessed before and won’t ever witness again, it seems: Jaime was the first man she met who did not just begrudgingly accept her nature, but who found something to appreciate about it.

Because he gave her all but one condition to make it “an oath for both parties.”

And that was a rematch, simple as that.

“Because you were _not_ beating me, wench, not for real.”

And that grew to be many rematches, in the training yards of the Red Keep.

And that, in turn, grew to be finding solace and appreciation in the other person’s presence, an understanding for the other that no one else shared in. It was only then that Brienne got to know the private Jaime Lannister, the one he was and is busy hiding under easy smiles and cutting comments, the one who was broken by a Mad King, who kept the man’s secrets even after his demise at the tip of his sword, who carried a lot of guilt he didn’t know where to put, who wanted nothing more than what she wanted, too, to protect the ones they love.

And it all began in the midst of a battlefield.

And as it appears, it is meant to end on one as well.

_Perhaps that is our fate – to rise and fall on the battleground._

Arya grins at Brienne, but then frowns, “He only _used to be_ that good? I found his style rather… outstanding. Not that I would let the coot know. I bet that would bring his ego to learn to fly into the sky.”

“You’d have no idea, but… he was better, once. Far better,” Brienne says, grimacing.

“How do you know that? I thought you can’t, well, _talk_ to each other,” Arya questions. She thought that was the core problem after all.

“And we don’t. I just know that he sustained an injury to the hand when he escaped King’s Landing. It was quite bad. I found the bandages he wore by day. And the wolf bore the same injury, so… it was not hard to guess that this would make it hard for him to wield a blade the way he used to once,” Brienne exhales.

Because he used to do it so effortlessly.

It was a dance, one of the most elegant and beautiful dances she ever came to witness.

Brienne never considered her fighting style elegant, not even close. It reflect who she is on the outside, or that is what Brienne always tended to believe. She is sturdy, she can endure and wear an opponent down because the Seven, while cursing her with mannish, ugly looks have gifted her with an equally as strong body, or so Goodwin told her many years ago. Brienne learned how to fight dirty in the melees, but Jaime? That man can taunt you with the tip of his blade in a way she never managed, no matter how often their blades collided. Even with the visor on, you just knew that the man was smiling, as though the heavy armor was the only thing that lifted him of all the responsibilities and demons from the past that weighed heavy on Jaime’s shoulders otherwise.

On the battlefield, he seemed weightless, if only for a while.

She found that confirmed once they started training together, and Jaime smiled and laughed as their swords kissed and sprang apart over and over, which reminded them both that sword fighting was always more to them than the mere exercise, more than knowing how to protect yourself and other people with the sharp edge of a blade, but a way of living, a way of being alive.

“While it’s not my way of wielding the blade, he handles the sword just fine. I think most would have failed against that many men of the Queensguard,” Arya comments, reckoning it cannot harm to offer some reassurance to Brienne, who may very well still be on the edge of escaping the septry to chase the wolf, if only to search the beast for wounds she can no longer access once day rose.

“Taking on those men is a rather easy task for him,” Brienne argues with a feeble smile. “Jaime trained many of them, made them members of the Kingsguard, then Queensguard. That means he knows their tactics, knows the way they move before they know it, because he was the one who taught them the steps.”

“Well, some only joined under Meryn Trant, that bastard,” Arya argues.

“And do you sincerely think that _he_ would stand a chance against Jaime?” Brienne scoffs.

The young girl shakes her head at that. “Not really.”

“Which is why his apprentices stand no chance either,” Brienne concludes.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to take any chances – with either one of you. Even more so since you have Valyrian steel on your hands,” Arya tells her with a smirk. “Oathkeeper may potentially cut my Needle in half if I don’t watch it.”

The tall woman whips her head around to her. “Oathkeeper?”

“Well, that was the sword’s name… isn’t it? Jaime said that…,” Arya mutters, her voice trailing off as she watches the woman’s growing shock as her whole body seems to go rigid.

“Oathkeeper,” the tall woman repeats, and if Arya is not mistaken, her eyes are now glistening with tears she does not allow herself to shed.

“… You didn’t know that it was the sword’s name?” Arya asks, but then pauses, reminding herself that if Jaime named it after they were cursed, he couldn’t tell her in her human shape anymore. He can call the sword Oathkeeper by day all he wants, it won’t carry into the night.

“No. It had no name by the time I first saw it in his chamber when Jaime showed it to me. He said that he wanted to wait until the right name came to him. _The best swords have names_ , as he said, _and that means you shouldn’t rush things_ … Jaime brought it along when he escaped King’s Landing. I didn’t know he found a name for it… though I suppose it was worth the wait, because there is not a more fitting name than that, I believe.”

 _Oathkeeper_.

And at last, she knows that as well, has something to put in her treasure chest that she will get to open coming night.

“So you didn’t name it yourself?” Arya questions.

Brienne shakes her head at that. “It’s Jaime’s sword, given to him by his father as he laid dying. I wield it in the night, but it isn’t mine to keep, it’s his. So _of course_ I didn’t name it. That is the right and duty of the person who owns the blade. It’s his.”

_And it will always be his._

“Then what name _would_ have given the sword if it had been yours?” Arya asks.

Brienne blinks. She never thought that far. To her, it was simply clear that the sword belonged to Jaime, that the act of naming it was his duty and privilege. However, now that she thinks about it, the answer to that question is rather clear to her, “Just the same. Oathkeeper.”

Arya makes a teasing face. “You two think _achingly_ much alike.”

“Don’t be fooled,” Brienne argues, letting out a light chuckle. “We disagree on a lot of things, it’s just that in times such as these, you hold on to what keeps you together much more than that which keeps you apart.”

Because they are eternally apart already, and they cannot afford to have more standing between them than night and day itself.

“Makes sense,” Arya mumbles. “I mean, as much sense as I can make of it. I don’t know what that must be like… being forced to go through what you undergo each day and each night.”

“You tell me… did it scare you when Tyrion told you about our past, the way we came to be the way we are now?” the woman asks quietly, her face unmoving, seemingly very much focused on keeping herself and her feelings reserved, hidden away.

“A bit, maybe,” Arya admits. “I didn’t know such a thing was even possible.”

And at some point, the young girl would want it to be impossible after all, if only that ended the suffering for those three people.

“It scared me. I always prided myself not knowing any fear, you see, but this night taught me fear,” the woman admits, not looking at the dark-haired girl as she speaks. “It taught me a kind of fear I didn’t know was possible.”

“When you saw Jaime transform, you mean,” the girl says.

“When I saw my whole world coming apart before my eyes. When they dragged me away from my friend who had just turned into a wolf with golden eyes, put me on a carriage and let the man drive me till day broke and I turned into a bird for the first time… and… escaped… And after that, there was nothing in the day anymore, there was no day for me, at all. Because once I awoke in the night… all of the day was gone. I no longer knew where I was, and I feared that soon I would start to forget who I had been. And _that_ taught me fear,” Brienne explains, her voice shaking.

_And knowing that Jaime will suffer the same destiny in reverse._

“I am so sorry for what you have gone through,” Arya tells her.

“That is hardly your fault. It’s mine. It’s always been,” Brienne sighs quietly, letting her gaze wander away from her, over to the small window where the moon is standing high in the pitch black sky.

_And it will always be._

“But Tyrion said _he_ told Cersei about your… secrets,” Arya argues. “And… well, she and the High Sparrow carried out the deed.”

“And you trust a drunk dwarf more than me? Believe me when I say that it was me – because I was the one who told him the secret he spilled along with the wine,” Brienne argues. “I never should have given him the information, I never should have involved him in my affairs. _That_ was the first stone that set forth an avalanche that won’t stop.”

“About that… Can I… can I ask you a question?”

The woman shrugs her shoulder, but then winces as the movement sends pain through her entire body. “If you must.”

“What secret did you tell Tyrion?” Arya wants to know, but the woman only ever rewards her with a misgiving look in turn.

“You don’t sincerely believe that I would tell you that, after I learned the very hard way what it can mean to entrust secrets into people’s care who don’t even have a plan of harming you, but end up doing it some other way because they don’t see what can be done with it.”

“Who would I tell?” Arya argues, gesturing around.

Brienne looks to the side at that, narrowing her big blue eyes.

And that is when the young girl starts to get a first idea – the one person she could tell is the man she travelled with until earlier in the day, the man Brienne could never tell a secret to even if she wanted to now, because by the time that he has the ears to listen, she does not have the mouth to speak.

“There are things people don't share. And it's unkind of other people to ask them for it,” Brienne tells her.

"It's just... I am trying to understand what led to this situation,” Arya argues. “I am just trying to… get it.”

She is just trying to see, see all of it.

"It's easy enough without knowing that particular detail. It's my fault. I brought that upon Jaime. He would have been safe, had I not dragged him into my own affairs, like I dragged Tyrion into them. And now he was cursed alongside me and there is no chance for me to undo this cruel destiny. That is all there is to know about it. That it is my fault, that I'd undo it if only I could, and that if I had the means, I would slay the Queen, the High Sparrow, and that Maester, with bare hands if need be, but I cannot and I will not. That is all there is to it. This is the end,” Brienne says forcefully, though her voice keeps betraying her throughout, breaking over and over.

Arya looks on with shock as tears start to spill from Brienne’s eyes at last. The young girl swallows thickly. Lady Brienne has this aura of a woman who doesn’t break, no matter the pressure, no matter the circumstance, but right now, she is broken, and Arya wants nothing but know her better again, but the dark-haired grows painfully aware that she has no way of fixing the damage done.

There are far too many burned bridges in the world, it seems.

“Please leave me now,” Brienne then says, her voice slightly shaking, doing her best to keep her tears, her sorrow, her suffering away from the young girl who shouldn’t have any involvement in this, if only Brienne could help it.

But she can never help it, not since the curse was cast.

She lacks the control, it was ripped away from her, leaving her weak and vulnerable where Brienne used to be strong, where no one could touch her before.

“But…,” Arya mutters.

“ _Please_.”

“It’s just… I am… I forgot to tell you something, something Jaime said before we parted,” Arya goes on hastily. Last time, she lied to escape, but this time… this may be a lie for good, to offer some solace, a shred of hope, maybe.

“And what did he say?” she asks wearily.

"Jaime said that you are the most important thing to him and that he wouldn’t want you to blame yourself for...,” Arya means to say, but Brienne lets out a bellowed laughter at that, holding her injured shoulder, before she goes on to answer, "I may not be a good liar myself, and I may have fallen for lies more easier than others, but now you are making yourself ridiculous, Arya Stark of Winterfell. Jaime Lannister wouldn't ever say such a thing without cracking up laughing right thereafter."

"But... I thought you two protected each other and...,” Arya means to say, but Brienne doesn’t let her finish the thought, "And that we do, but that is simply nothing Jaime Lannister would ever say. I know him better than you do, so don't try to come up with comforting lies for me. There lies no comfort in lies. _I_ should know. Lies destroyed all that was good and true in my life. So… if you want our truce to matter, don’t lie to me ever again. Even if you just mean to offer comfort. Promise me that, Arya. Promise me.”

The young girl bows her head once more. “I promise.”

“Good,” Brienne mutters, well aware that the girl means well, but just doesn’t seem to know yet what she can do to achieve just that. “Then I would say… we should get some rest.”

“So you won’t be going away?” Arya asks.

Brienne shakes her head. “Not tonight, no. So now… leave me be, yes?”

“Yes,” Arya confirms. “And sorry another time.”

“It’s alright,” Brienne assures her, meaning it.

“And… thank you another time, too,” the young girl adds feebly.

That has Brienne frown. “For what would you thank me?”

“For the help. And for listening to my story. I didn’t tell anyone, never had someone to tell it to… for hearing me out… without judging me,” Arya says, finding her own voice shaking now. “And for… and for the truce.”

“Well, then I suppose I am to thank you for entrusting the story into my care… but now I would… really like to get some rest,” Brienne says, evidently fighting for composure she seems to have had stripped away from her with the injury and likely reliving some of the worst moments in her life, now aware that there is someone who knows about their impossible story by now.

“As you will. Good night, Lady Brienne.”

“Good night, Lady Arya, and… good day. Because I won’t see you by that time, at least not in this shape,” the older woman tells her, offering a feeble smile she seemingly means nonetheless.

“A good day to you, too, then.”

Brienne nods her head curtly before lowering herself down on the furs and hay slowly, wincing at the pain washing through her body. Arya motions to the door, seeing over her shoulder how the tall woman glances at the ceiling, somehow trying to contain herself, to keep herself from going, even though she wants to be out there as the wolf’s howl starts to echo in the chamber, reminding Brienne painfully much about their condition which they can’t seem to escape from.

Once Arya closed the door, Brienne lets out a sigh as she lifts her left arm to reach up, reaching something she doesn’t know the shape of, doesn’t know the name of, but knows out there, knows she wants and needs.

“Oahtkeeper,” she mutters.

And the wolf howls in agreement.

 

* * *

 

 Winds howling, whistling, hissing.

Boughs swinging back and forth in the brusque gust, stretching across dark woods like long bony fingers about to grab whoever dares to pass underneath them.

Candles flickering in the breeze coming from the outside, dancing to unknown rhythms, foreign songs, spoken, muttered, whispered in unknown tongues.

Shadows dancing over the cloth of the tent, stretching and shrinking, hopping and hiding, scurrying away as dim light chases them across the washed patterns, letting them lose all shape, only to jump from the shadows in another to continue their endless roundel.

The night approaching, hastening to places hidden deep in the woods, looming over the fog hanging heavy above dark grass and dry soil. And along the way, closing down all routes, leaving only the escape forward, into the tent offering at least a bit of light.

No way of going back, just forward, or else the boughs will get them, haunt them, devour them.

“When will I wed the prince?” she asks, her thumb still pounding from where the witch cut it with a rusty knife to lick at the royal blood cursing in the young girl’s veins.

“Never. You will wed the king,” the witch croons.

“I will be queen, though?”

“Aye. Queen you shall be... until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear,” the woman says, her voice fading out as the boughs scratch against the tent and start to collapse on them, swallow them whole to spit them out at the heart of the darkness, the wicked woman’s laughter the only echo filling the vastness of nothingness.

_And Queen I was, and Queen I became, in my own right, even if that meant taking a stag’s antlers with the aid of a boar’s tusks._

The woman’s laughter keeps fading away, grows faint, until it goes mute, but then other voices rise, familiar voices she would want to believe to have cast out for good.

_The little monster._

“I suppose her youth is rubbing off on him in a good way, sister. I didn’t see our brother that joyous as he has been since that mannish woman stomped into his life. It’s a quite sight!”

“You know what they call her? Brienne the Beauty, if only just to cut her, but the woman knows how to cut back with the edge of her sword, so I suppose all is well.”

“She is of noble blood, far nobler than most people will likely ever know.”

“Think about it, sister. We could have it all. All you’d have to do is to let go of some things that we both know you hold very dear. It may open up some exceptional possibilities for you.”

“You have the crown on your head. Who would take it from you? Who would dare?”

And then, the former echoes come to join the chorus in the darkness, alongside the sighs of the boughs, the howls of the winds, the unknown songs of the candle lights, the mute dance of the shadows that rings louder than most of the voices altogether.

They all combine as light returns. And that is when she sees before her that which she glanced at for such a long time without ever being granted to sit herself upon this chair in her own right. Until she took that which she deserved, that which she worked for, taking up with that man, taking up with her fate and making it into something else.

And its shadows crawl up the walls, making it bigger and more imposing than it is by nature.

“Until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear,” she can hear the echo flitting across the great hall. She turns her head, trying to find the source of the noise, but there is no one, only her and the Iron Throne, only her and the voices loud and mute alike.

“Go away!” she wants to shout at the woman, but she isn’t there, only her echo that doesn’t die down, doesn’t wash, no matter the years she spent sitting the throne.

_But who would dare to cast me down? Who would dare? Who would? Why didn’t you ever tell me, you nasty witch?_

She starts to climb the stairs, then, lifts her skirts a bit so not to stumble or fall.

“Younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.”

She picks up speed, the stairs suddenly unending, the goal, her place to be, drifting away from her, no matter how fast she runs.

“Brienne the Beauty.”

_Brienne of Tarth._

_Daughter of Lord Selwyn Tarth._

_Descendant of…_

_Blood of…_

_Beast of a woman._

“To cast you down and take all that you hold dear.”

_Take the lion’s claws, its teeth._

_But you will hear me roar._

_Because the crown is mine, the Throne is mine._

“Queen you shall be…”

And that is when she falls to her knees, the Iron Throne suddenly a thousand leagues away, though she needs it, though it is hers and hers alone.

“Give it back!” she wants to curse, but does not, as she can hear the voices closing in on her, even though no one is there to utter them.

“I didn’t see our brother that joyous as he has been since that mannish woman stomped into his life.”

And so the roundel begins anew.

She grabs her head with both fists, screaming at the top of her lungs, but there is no sound, no echo.

“Take all that you hold dear.”

_All that I hold dear._

_All of it._

_All._

_No._

_No. No._

_No. No. No!_

“Nooooo!” Cersei Lannister shouts as she sits up straight in her bed, chest heaving, heart pounding as she grows conscious that she lies in her chamber, her sheets scattered on the ground as she kept thrashing in her restless sleep.

She balls her fists as she tries to calm herself, reminding herself that it was only just a dream, only just her mind daring to play tricks with the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

 _The old woman in the tent was insane, and even if she wasn’t, the curse has been averted_ , Cersei tells herself the way she has for many sleepless nights now.

The Dragon Queen won’t come from the East, having found her home there, concerning herself with some nonsense about freeing the slaves there. No lady, no lord has laid claims to the title Cersei took for herself when she put the crown on her head for the first time, other than her late husband’s brothers, all of whom hardly posed a challenge, bearing in mind what sins she could easily present to the people to have them fall from the grace of ever being called “Grace.”

_And the woman? She was a beast, and now is one in the flesh, too! How fitting!_

Cersei taught her that lesson, she made sure of that.

Even if by some wink of fate that beast were the one meant by the prophecy Maggy gave her all those years ago, of that Cersei is certain, she did all to have it prevented, to undo the curse the woman gave her when two young girls came to her tent, demanding to have their fortunes told. That beast is only a woman in the night, and that is when the Queen stands guarded, stands protected under the watchful eyes of her men.

_She can’t touch me. No one can. I am Queen. And I will stay Queen, old blood or not._

“Your Grace?” a familiar voice says from the other side of the door.

“Qyburn, come inside,” she calls out, straightening herself, easing her messed hair back, knowing fully well that she does not have to hide from her trusted Maester without chains in that way, but Cersei is of the opinion that it cannot harm to make people aware over and over that she stands above it all, above all nightmares and human insufficiencies.

The dark-haired man with a mind far too clever for most people’s good steals inside her chamber, as always, carrying some book under his black robe.

“What is the matter?” the Queen demands to know.

“Two guests have arrived, a commoner and a hunter, Your Grace,” Qyburn tells her.

“Oh, I almost forgot about that,” she says, letting out a sigh as she gets up from the bed. “It was high time anyway. The Queen does not like to be kept waiting.”

“Most certainly not, and neither should she have to,” the measter affirms. While Cersei knows it to be flattery, she is fine with that for now, because that man has to be at her service because she knows what he wants – and can get it to him.

And that is how you gain people’s trust, their services.

The rest is just talking in tongues dipped in honey, throwing out flatteries the way knights toss roses to the feet of the ladies whose favor they mean to earn in a tourney.

“Should I have them brought to chambers and schedule a meeting tomorrow, or…,” Qyburn asks, but Cersei interrupts him, her back turned to him as she speaks, “Lead the commoner into the great hall. I will be there shortly. Make sure that Ser Meryn is with us to carry out some business for me.”

“As you will, Your Grace,” Qyburn agrees, nodding his head. “And what of the hunter?”

“Give him drink and food, give him whatever he may desire, and let him know that the Queen will see him shortly. He is the guest that we want to be in good favor with, after all,” the Queen orders.

“As you will, Your Grace.”

“Then leave me now. I have to get changed. After all, both expect to see the Queen,” Cersei says, stepping over to the table upon which rests a red velvet pillow. She lets her fingers brush over the cold surface of the crown she had forged to fit her head, and only just her head.

_Because there will be no other so long I live._

“Yes, Your Grace,” the maester says before exiting the room on quick feet.

Cersei takes up the crown and places it in her hair, finding solace in the reassurance that this is reality, that this is not the dream. And so long that is what is true, that witch can go to the Seven Hells and back with her prophecy.

_Queen I shall be. And Queen I am._

 

* * *

 

Cersei Lannister, now dressed in fine, black garbs which she had fitted to her body perfectly, the crown glistening in the lights of the candle as she makes towards the Iron Throne, yet again reminds herself that this is not the dream that had her wake drenched in sweat, because as she lifts her skirts slightly to climb the staircase, it’s the same amount of stairs it has been since she ever walked up to the Iron Throne, because she does not stumble, does not fall, because the Iron Throne does not drift away from her.

_Because it’s her. And it will always be hers._

The Queen ignores the man standing at the foot of the stairs, his fingers nervously fiddling with his worn hat, eyes wide, mouth even wider. She only ever pays any attention to him once she sat down and feels the bumps and edges of the swords from which the throne was forged pressing against her.

“My good friend, it has been quite some time since we last saw one another,” Cersei says, making sure to keep her voice even lighter than the small smile she rewards the man with a thick scar on his forehead, scared of her, scared of everything.

_As he should be._

“In, in fact, Your Grace,” the man stutters.

“Now, do you care to remind me… what was it that I asked you to do for me? You see, a Queen has many businesses to attend, having to rule justly the Seven Kingdoms and its people. So my memory is somewhat fading. Would you care to help me out?” she asks slowly.

The man swallows, seemingly not fooled by the tone of her voice, which makes him ever the more frightened in turn, however. “You, you gave me a task. To leave the city with a woman on the back of the carriage you gave me. I was supposed to take it far away, into the woods. And then wait until day came… to then kill the bird the woman would then become. Because she was a witch.”

“Ah, yes. _That_ ,” Cersei says with a smile she doesn’t mean. “So now, you care to remind me… how did that go? Because I am afraid you never informed me of the exact happenings of that night and day.”

“No, Your Grace, I did not,” the man answers, bowing his head impossibly deeper.

“And why didn’t you?” she asks, though she long since knows the answer.

“I… I didn’t finish the task and I didn’t mean to return until I had succeeded, Your Grace,” the man says, though evidently, he lies.

“So you mean to tell me that you knew you didn't succeed in killing a bird, but instead of informing your Queen about the matter, you… told her nothing of it? Or shall I rather say… you hid it away from your Queen? Conspired to leave her in the dark about this? Do I get that right, my good friend?” the woman sitting the Iron Throne asks, letting her fingers dance over the rough edges of the reforged blades.

“Your Grace, I was… I was afraid that you would have me punished for not carrying out the deed as you ordered me to,” the man insists. “I would never mean to lie to my Queen, let alone conspire against her. Nothing could be further from my intentions, Your Grace.”

“And yet… she seemingly escaped. Because apparently, news reached me that the bird still flies into the sky by day, which means that witch is still out there – and I didn’t know of that. So you might be able to imagine both my shock and disappointment, since I had entrusted this very good man before me with that most delicate business.”

“I… I thought she was sleeping, you see? I thought she would sleep through it all until she would become a bird, but that woman… that woman was more of a man than a woman all along! She somehow managed to cut herself loose and attacked me from behind. I didn’t even see it coming. She knocked so hard that I still bear the scar right here from that encounter,” the man says, pointing at the scar on his forehead.

Cersei does not reward that with a reply, but instead lets him continue, “By the time I awoke, the woman was long since gone. I… I tried to find her, with all I had, Your Grace, but nothing seemed to work, no matter my efforts.”

“Oh, so it’s punishment you feared – and that thus kept you from informing me about your failure,” Cersei says, tilting her head to the side.

The man nods frantically. “Yes, Your Grace. I see now the wrong of my actions, but… but I was afraid. And I was afraid of coming here empty-handed.”

“And yet, you took the coin and kept it, while starting your new life outside the city gates,” Cersei argues, keeping her voice flat. “One could say that you left rather… full-handed.”

“Your Grace’s told me not to return to the capitol after the deed was done,” the man argues in the vain hope of defending himself somehow.

“And I told you to kill that wretched beast before you disappeared, and yet… you didn’t. To me, it appears that you did the exact opposite of what you were asked to do, and kept the reward regardless of that fact,” the Queen says, tapping her index finger against the metal of the throne.

“I meant no ill, I tried to find her for very long, Your Grace,” the man insists, clutching at his hat ever the tighter.

“And instead of telling your Queen about that… you stayed away,” Cersei points out to him.

“I didn’t dare to return until I found her.”

“Well, lucky for you… she has been found, right outside the city gates,” she tells him.

That is when the man falls to his knees, bowing impossibly deeper, as though to run his head into the tiles on the ground. “I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace.”

“Get up, my friend, you’d shame us both,” Cersei sighs.

The man looks up in confusion, so she goes on to say, “Well, I suppose I can’t even blame you. I was foolish to entrust such a delicate matter into the hands of a common thief the likes of you. One should think that the gift of freedom would be enough to get your Queen the love she granted you in return for a small favor.”

She dared to believe it to be a good idea, having the deed carried out by a man no one would know, no one would miss, whose voice no one bothered to listen to, because he was like any other thief rotting in the black cells awaiting judgment.

But as always, she keeps being disappointed.

“I was simply afraid. I know what is done with people who disobey. I was afraid, Your Grace. I was scared,” the man insists, and she grows more and more tired of his pleading with every second passing.

“And are you scared now?” she asks, craning her neck.

“Yes,” he mutters, not daring to meet her gaze.

“But you need not be afraid,” she assures him. “You broke no laws of the Seven that would allow for a walk of atonement. You are at the Crown’s mercy alone.”

“Please, Your Grace. I don’t want to die,” the man whimpers.

“ _Die_? What makes you think that I would have you executed, my dear friend?” Cersei asks, her tune light, her mind rather focused on the feel of iron against the tips of her fingers.

“You won’t?” he asks, blinking at her.

“Of course I won’t. What a Queen would that make me? No, you shall receive a reward to remind you of the Queen’s trust and favor that could have been all yours, if only you had not disappointed her so greatly,” she answers.

“W, what?”

Cersei nods at Meryn Trant. “Bring this good man back home. It is our duty to welcome him back into this our city of King’s Landing.”

Ser Meryn grabs the man by the arm.

“Your, Your Grace, but my home is now elsewhere, it’s Fawnton,” the man argues as the Lord Commander grabs him by the arm to pull him back to his feet.

“Oh, I know, because that is from where we had you gathered, but you may recall that you built your little house with the Crown’s money, which you were not entitled to at all because you failed to carry out the deed you were assigned in turn. Therefore, it’d seem unjust to me to have you live on in that house in Fawnton as you liked. What would others think, working for the Queen? They would get the same reward for actually doing the task whereas you enjoy your little life at the Crown’s expenses. No, we can’t have that,” Cersei argues, shaking her head.

“Then where do I go?” the man asks, voice shaking alongside his body as he can feel the other man’s grip tightening on him.                                                                                

“As I said, back home, my friend,” Cersei answers.

“But I have no home here anymore.”

“Oh, you do. Did you already forget?” the Queen argues, looking at the Lord Commander to address him, “Why don’t you show him his place, Ser Meryn? I think our friend will have enough time now to think about that which he has done. In the black cells, his one true home.”

“What?! No, Your Grace, please! Please!” the man pleads.

“Use your time wisely, my friend, and think about all that could have been yours if only you had not betrayed the Queen’s trust,” Cersei advises him before she turns to the Lord Commander another time. “And send someone to Fawnton to collect all remains of the Crown’s possessions, as retribution.”

“What of the house?” Ser Meryn asks, ignoring the man trying to break free from him, from the black cells awaiting him, the home he will never escape, because in the eyes of the Crown he has never been more than a thief.

“Burn it down. The Crown has no interest in some small spot of land in Fawnton,” the Queen says.

“What?! No, please, Your Grace! I am begging you! Please!” the man shouts.

“Bring him away already,” Cersei orders the Lord Commander, waving with the back of her hand, having grown tired of that business.

_They are all so utterly useless in the end._

With that, Ser Meryn drags the screaming man out of the great hall, his cries echoing down the hallways as they go. Cersei leans back on the Iron Throne, letting her fingers brush over the rough surface of the melted swords from which the Iron Throne was formed.

She can’t trust anyone, it seems. Even a thief given a great reward for a simple task of cutting a tied woman’s ugly neck is seemingly asked too much.  The Queen was hoping for a bit more secrecy, which is why she took an unimportant man the likes of him to carry out the task. You can _buy_ people’s trust, Cersei wanted to believe. Had she assigned a man of the Queensguard to the task, there would have been no sure way to tell whether he would have passed on the information. Even Ser Ilyn Payne, whose tongue was carved out years ago, has his ways of passing down information, she is aware. Some write a letter, some sign it.

Unwanted truths always find their way into the world.

Therefore, the Queen wanted to use someone utterly unimportant, someone who would disappear so that no news of the woman not having executed promptly would have travelled to the High Sparrow’s perked ears. The man is far too nosy anyway, so she wanted to know all of that business far out of the barefooted fool’s reach.

Which is the reason why Cersei put in any effort to surround herself with more ideal soldiers, to keep herself guarded from the incompetence and treachery of men the likes of this thief, the likes of all those who betrayed her, conspired against her. Cersei Lannister is done buying people’s trust, she simply wants to have it, own it, and if she is the one who owns the person, then that problem will be resolved at last.

 _It’s only a matter of time_ , she reminds herself, taking a deep breath. _And then I will have my perfect sword and shield. And no harm will ever come my way again. And the Throne will stay mine and mine alone._

Because she once had them, sword and shield, but then the man wielding them in her name betrayed her, betrayed her trust, her confidence in his devotion to her and her cause.

_My own family no less._

“Your Grace?” Qyburn’s voice rings out again, pulling the Queen’s attention back to the man wearing the Lord Hand’s golden pin on his chest. Thankfully, the man tends to have a rather good timing, knowing when exactly to interrupt her train of thoughts to guide her back to the more urgent businesses that are meant to secure that which she wears on her head and can stroke with her fingers.

“Yes?” she asks, turning her head in the man’s direction.

“May I bring in the second guest now or do you need more time to gather yourself, Your Grace?” the older man asks.

“No, bring him in, bring him in,” Cersei answers.

Because she can’t wait that long, despite her deeply felt wish that she would no longer have to buy herself people’s trust, has to lower herself to depend on people doing as she tells them to, something that a Queen should not have to ask for. However, this issue needs to be resolved at once, and if that means paying for something that should be hers all along, then that is so.

Her time will come.

She is Queen.

And she is going to stay Queen.

Cersei watches as the heavy wooden door opens with a shriek and a dark-haired man clad in dark leather clothes strides inside, his light blue eyes piercing through the shades of yellow and orange from the candles. There is a kind of certainty and glee in his steps that has the Queen rather pleased.

_Because that is the kind of spirit that it seems to take to bring down such a wretched creature the likes of that beast of a woman._

“Your Grace,” the young man says, bowing his head in a theatrical gesture as he reaches the staircase leading up to the Iron Throne, a cunning smirk tugging at his lips. “You have called for me.”

“Yes, I have indeed. And I am most grateful that you could make it here so promptly, my friend,” she tells him, flashing a smile she may actually come to mean, because she is in fact very pleased about that development.

She only heard the best about him.

Or rather, the worst, which is the best for her in turn.

“I had some business to attend around the capitol anyway. Otherwise, it would have taken me a while longer, coming all the way down from Dreadfort,” the man tells her.

“Which I daresay is a wink of fortune. The Gods have sent you to me, I am sure,” Cersei tells him, however, the man seems less than impressed by that, and instead just rolls his shoulders, arguing, “Frankly speaking, Your Grace, your Gods, or anyone’s Gods for that matter, concern me little. However, your men, when they approached, told me of a rather great reward awaiting me, a trophy, in fact. And that is something I concern myself with… quite a lot, and with equally as much passion.”

“Oh, yes, that is true,” she affirms.

“Though I do wonder how comes you requested me in particular for that service,” the man comments with his usual smirk.

“Quite easy, my dear friend, your reputation precedes you as one of the best hunters the country has ever seen,” Cersei explains.

He chuckles at that. “Now you are flattering me, Your Grace.”

“Oh, I am not at all into flattery, my friend. However, I have my ears everywhere, I have my little birds to whisper to me. And all that I heard about you was what made me confident that you are the only one who can carry out the task I need to see being fulfilled. Because you specialize not only just… in the mere hunt of the beasts, I heard,” the Queen points out with a smirk she means indeed, because the mere thought of that being the future makes her blood run hot, hushing the darkness of her bad dreams away, leaving no echoes, no vicious laughter fading away.

“I hunt _everything_ ,” the man snickers.

“Exactly.”

Man, head money, beast, whatever you tell him to get? He will.

And that is exactly what Cersei needs to see that deed being carried out at last.

“Then what do you want me to hunt down for you?” the man asks.

“If you catch them by day, you will bring me a man with a hawk. If you catch them by night, you will bring me a wolf and a… let’s say _woman_. Rather mannish that one.”

“And not all of them?”

“That _is_ all of them.”

“How so?”

“She is a witch, casting dark magic. She turns him into a wolf by night, and casts herself into the shape of a hawk by day.”

“A witch? Hm, that is something new. I didn’t get to hunt down one of those just yet,” the man chimes.

“Which is why I hoped that this would spark your interest in the deed. After all, that would be quite a trophy to add to your collection,” Cersei points out.

“Oh, most definitely, Your Grace,” the man chuckles. “And do you want me to skin them for you already? My knives are always sharp, you know?”

“Bring me the man cursed into a wolf’s skin as unharmed as you can. The treacherous witch who continues spreading her dark magic, now in her mannish shape or that of the bird? You can skin her as it pleases you. All I am asking of you is that you show her to me once,” Cersei explains. “I took a chance with a man far less capable than you once, and I don’t want to repeat my mistakes another time. So I’d rather want to be sure, I’d rather want to see it with my own eyes. Dead or alive… or whatever remains of her once you start taking your trophy.”

“And I can take whatever trophy of my choosing, or do you want to see a particular skin dropped to the bottom of your stairs?” he asks.

“Whatever skin fits you best,” she tells him. “It makes no difference to me, so long you bring her here to me.”

“But I won’t get the pelt.”

“Not the pelt, no.”

“Hm, pity. I didn’t have a wolf for a while,” the man sighs. “And their pelts are the best.”

“I am afraid that the wolf is out of question,” Cersei says.

The man shrugs, his smile growing. “Well, so be it, but a beast of a woman? My knives did not lick at such a wound by now, and I must say, the blades are already singing for that blood.”

“And you are free to handle her however you please, so long she eventually… finds her end. Naturally, you would be rewarded with more than just that trophy. The Crown would not find it appropriate to have you leave with so little for your services,” the Queen tells him.

“And what would that reward be, Your Grace?” the hunter asks.

Cersei turns her head to the side, to the Maester who stood in the back quietly as ever, taking in, but knowing when to keep quiet and when to step to the front.

“Qyburn?” she asks.

The Maester without chains walks over to the hunter, handing him a scroll bearing the Crown’s sigil.

“What is that?” the blue-eyed man asks.

“I believe something that you will find of true value,” Cersei answers with a smile tugging at her lips, gesturing at him to take a look at what he now holds in hand.

The man breaks the wax seal open with a cracking sound, his darting eyes widening as they catch the words written on the page.

And no less did Cersei expect.

Because there is a price to every man, to every woman.

You just have to find it, and find the means to give them what they want, so they, in turn, do what you want.

“If you succeed and bring me the man alive, and do with the witch however you please, so long she finds her end, you will no longer have to spend your days bearing the name Snow. You will go on as legitimate heir to Dreadfort, as Lord Bolton’s one true son, Ramsay Bolton of House Bolton, by the Queen’s decree,” Cersei announces.

The man’s glance tells her all that she must know.

No trust, but interest.

And that is good enough for her so long she sees that business being taken care of at last, so that nightmares find their end and disappear into the nothingness they mean to draw her into over and over again.

“Your Grace, it is as you say: _This_ is of true value to me,” Ramsay tells her, holding up the scroll. “And you can believe me, I will do all that is within my powers to keep that title that you grant me hereby, because truly, there is nothing I desire more.”

“No less did I expect,” Cersei chimes, finding her mind somewhat at ease now.

“Your Grace, you will get what you desire, too, I promise you so, as Ramsay Bolton, you have my word,” the hunter assures her.

“Then be on your way, Ramsay Bolton. Qyburn included a map of where they were last seen, to help you carry out the deed as fast as you can,” the Queen informs him.

The man nods his head, before bowing this time with less of a theatrical act and more of an act of actual appreciation for the price she offered for his services. “I thank you, Your Grace.”

With that, the hunter walks off, knowing that he has a trophy to collect, and a wolf to return to the Queen to ride back to Dreadfort with no hint of Snow on him anymore.

Once the man is gone, the Queen turns her head to her advisor. “Qyburn?”

“Yes, Your Grace?” he asks.

“Is there any progress with regards to the experiment?” she asks calmly, knowing that the words spoken won’t cause an echo, since they ring only just between them and the Iron Throne, the one thing that would never betray her.

“In fact, yes, Your Grace,” Qyburn affirms, flashing a proud smile at her. “I am now in stage four of the tests, all of which look _very_ promising.”

“And when do you expect results that I can rely on?” the Queen asks, because no matter her confidence in the hunter to carry out his deed to keep his title, she is aware that more needs to be done.

Because she needs more to rely on, needs more to have trust in, not personal trust, but a trust to carry out that which she wants to see being done, without question, without hesitation, to shake an empire once and for all – to make it hers and hers alone, with just One Pillar carrying the Seven Kingdoms.

“I think we are right on time for the big procession, the celebration in the name of the Mother that will take place little while from now. It will be just the right time to introduce the people to the new rule.”

“That sounds rather promising indeed,” Cersei agrees. “And then a new era will begin, standing on only one pillar, so strong that no one can shake it, that no one can break it.”

“And what of… Ser Jaime?” the maester without chains asks quietly.

“He betrayed me,” she replies, feeling nothing. “There is no way of saving him anymore. Gods know I tried. If our good hunter is to succeed, the High Sparrow will meddle with my brother and his sins. Which only ever plays to our advantage. The man grew obsessed with the former Lord Commander after that little incident short before he made his escape. And that will keep our barefooted friend nicely preoccupied while we… prepare for the new era.”

“But what if the man is not successful?” Qyburn questions.

“Well, then we will have no other choice but to wait for the new era to arise, and then crush all resistance that may come my way. I won’t be fooled. My brother will want my head, and since the crown sits atop that head, I am keen on keeping it. Even if that means I have to take more drastic measurements,” Cersei sighs.

She will do whatever is necessary.

“And the woman?” the maester asks.

“She will fall. Like they all fell. Like they will all keep falling. Down a well. Down a tower. Onto a boar’s tusk. To my feet after I am Queen, and I will stay Queen. If anyone wants to cast me down, they will have to kill me first, and since the new era is on the rise, I don’t think they will succeed,” Cersei says, her hands tightening on the Iron Throne’s armrest.

“No, that is a trial by combat they will end up losing, I can say that much for certain, judging by the latest results of my experiments,” the Hand confirms.

“Precisely. Which is why you should be back in your chamber, working on those experiments, no?” Cersei agrees, cocking an eyebrow at the older man.

Qyburn nods his head, and one can see the glee sparking up in his eyes at the prospect of continuing to acquiring the knowledge that others say should be forbidden. “Oh, most definitely, Your Grace.”

“Then be on your way as well. Your Queen is tired and needs some more rest. The new day is on the rise already, and with every day passing, we come closer to the new era we will announce,” the Queen tells him.

“Yes, Your Grace,” the man agrees, before leaving the great hall.

Cersei leans back on the Iron Throne, lets her back rub against the uneven bumps and hollows created by the swords. She lets out a pleased sigh. Because this is real, that the Iron Throne is hers is real.

The Queen closes her eyes, to get some rest at last.


	6. Scorpions, Symbols, and Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion, Arya, and Brienne are in for some bad surprises as men of the Queensguard are not far away, in the aftermath of which all invovled are confronted with having to make some life-changing choices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thanks for sticking around even though updating times continue to suck. I struggled with this chapter in particular because writing battle scenes is not my forte, but now I think I found a way passable enough to give us some drama. 
> 
> In any case, I hope you are going to like this chapter. 
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

Arya did not get much sleep last night. Whenever she closed her eyes, her mind was instantly reeling back to Tyrion, Brienne, and Jaime – and their cruel destiny. The young girl has spent quite a while somewhat afloat, not knowing how to go forward, but now she tends to think that what gives her direction is no longer being alone.

She spent such a long time being no one that Arya can’t help but wonder whether it’s actually time to be someone again, to be Arya Stark of Winterfell again, but then again, that would mean she would have to face her family after the betrayal, and the young girl doesn’t even know where to be begin that thought or let it end.

However, here she sees three people who can’t be who they are, who can’t be who they are to each other, and not by choice, but by cruel destiny, or rather, the hands of the Queen and the High Sparrow, who seem to believe that it is their Gods-given right to do with the people as they please, a thought that makes Arya’s stomach turn to white flames, burning and sizzling at her flesh. First Syrio, and now those two as well, alongside the hundreds of people rotting in the black cells, walking down the streets shamed and humiliated, fearing for their own lives, dignity, and salvation only because the likes of the Two Pillars are in power and seem intent on keeping it.

“I see you are awake already?” she can hear Tyrion call out. Arya turns her head to see the short-grown man approach, rubbing his bearded face, looking still somewhat disheveled after the amount of wine she helped to pour down his throat, though the young girl reckons that this is not the first time he gave in to that beverage and its soothing numbness.

“Apparently,” she answers.

“I reckon you didn’t get much sleep after what you heard before I… passed out,” he says, looking around. “Oh, morning didn’t yet rise.”

“No, not yet,” Arya says, glancing out the window.

“I assume Brienne is still in her chamber?” he asks, looking around, to which the young girl replies, “She wanted to go outside once, but… I suppose I managed to keep her from that.”

“Good. I mean, she has more strength than most, but even the strongest can use some rest every now and then,” Tyrion comments.

“She would disagree with that,” Arya huffs.

Though seeing her in the chamber before made the young girl aware of the amount of pain this tall-standing woman must bear in her heart, and that is a kind of weight that most people get crushed under.

“Certainly.”

“I have a question,” she then goes ahead to say, turning around to face the dwarf, who narrows his eyes at her. “You had a lot of those already.”

Arya shrugs at that. “Humans are curious after all. For better or worse.”

“True,” Tyrion exhales wearily.

“So? Will you tell me the rest of the story?” the girl asks bluntly.

“Now that I am a bit sober again? No, not at all,” Tyrion answers shaking his head.

“Pity. I would want to know the whole story,” Arya sighs. She already feared he would say that, but it can’t harm to ask anyway, because truth be told, she would want to hear it all, so that she can see it all in its entirety. After all, at this point of time, the young girl feels more like she is barely holding on to some of the threads holding the fabric together into which this tale was stitched.

And Arya will have to admit that she was never good at needlework.

_That was Sansa, always Sansa._

“I suppose not much is gained from knowing all of it. What there is to know is… that this story does not have much chance to give us a happy ending,” the short-grown man tells her, licking his slightly red-tinted lips.

Arya cranes her neck at that, her muscles suddenly tightening into small knots. “… Which means there _is_ , if only just a faint one?”

After all, he had her believe that there is no way to undo this curse.

“I am still too drunk,” Tyrion grunts, rubbing his right hand over his forehead, as though to ease the pain out of it with just a faint touch, though it doesn’t seem to help him much at all.

Arya gets up and walks over to him, gesturing wildly. “I mean that! Is there a chance to undo this curse? If so, why wouldn’t you tell them?”

“That is none of your business.”

“I am travelling with the two, so it actually is.”

“Well, that is over now,” he points out to her bluntly, which takes the brunette aback for a moment.

Because Tyrion has a point – this could be the end of her involvement in those affairs. Either way, she could slip from this septry, go on as she did, or perhaps make towards Winterfell and try to reconcile with a family who likely put up a statue in the crypts beneath the castle by now.

She could do all that.

_And yet…_

“No, it’s not. I will see to that,” Arya finds herself say, suddenly feeing the same kind of surge of certainty inside her that the young girl felt when she made the choice to stay with Syrio and planned her escape.

There is suddenly no doubt that their stories are entwined in some way, and Arya does believe that she owes those two a debt, even though it may not be the kind of currency either one of them is going to fancy.

_But then again, it just takes a bit of convincing._

“What? You think Jaime is going to take you along after what happened – and that well knowing who you are and whose daughter you are?” Tyrion scoffs.

“I owe them a debt,” Arya insists.

Perhaps it’s time for her not to move as swift as a deer for her own sake, to flit away, but to stay for once, stand her ground, and set something into motion for others who have been chained and locked in by destiny itself.

“And so do I, and yet, it is not up to you and me to decide on those matters. Those two? They have made up their minds long time ago,” Tyrion huffs. “And you can believe me that much, once my brother decided on something, that decision is final. And same is true for Brienne. They made their peace with this, or their war, whatever it may be.”

“And you just… you just give up? Drink wine and give up? Well, if that doesn’t make you a small man!” Arya curses, heat flooding her cheeks and knuckles. Here she thought that this man earnestly meant to repay the debt he owes those two, like she does, but here he stands, doing nothing, drinking, and bemoaning not having done anything.

And it is that thought that makes her heart contract for a moment there, because it reminds her far too much of her own treatment of her own family, back in Winterfell.

“I am a small man by nature,” he snorts.

“I don’t mean small in that sense. I mean small in character.”

Tyrion shakes his head. “You have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Well, Jaime will somehow crawl here, that’s for sure. And you’d be a fool not to tell him.”

“And you really think I would not?” the short-grown man suddenly curses with a kind of impact Arya didn’t see coming.

“You didn’t until now?” she asks, blinking.

“Because they went into hiding, girl! Because they went away! Because they had to run and stay away because they were suddenly prey instead of knight and lady knight! Because my brother said to me that if I ever dared to come looking for them, he could not guarantee to keep the sword in its sheath!” Tyrion curses, suddenly seeming to stand a lot taller than Arya dared to give him credit for.

“You see, little lady, we all have lived through this story to the point that it is no story anymore. Not for us. For you? It’s seemingly something that fascinated you. Our lives, this tragedy, it’s not like a book where you can flip through the pages because something sparked your interest or curiosity. People are suffering, and just because this strikes you as something to dive into doesn’t mean that you suddenly have authority about how I should act or should have acted. Because, and on that you can well trust me, I spent years pondering just those questions,” Tyrion goes on. “Because this is my brother we are talking about. Because this is Brienne we are talking about, a woman, good and true whom I ended up betraying without meaning for any of it! I care about both of them, more than most can even begin to fathom. If there is someone to judge me, it’s them, but not you.”

“But I just don’t understand why you would sit here and wait…”

“I am not…,” Tyrion means to say, but that is when a crescendo of knocks and kicks against wood carries all the way up the narrow staircases and crevices in the stone to where they are standing.

The two, the argument already forgotten and the heat subsided, look at each other questioningly.

“That can’t be Jaime, can it?” Arya asks, frowning.

“It’s still dark outside and the moon is standing high, so no,” Tyrion answers, alert flashing across his features, suddenly a lot more sober in his appearance than he was before. “So unless the wolf learned to knock on the door, I’d think we have some other… guests. I will see about that.”

Tyrion turns to leave for the stairway leading down to the main entrance.

“I am coming with you,” the young girl means to insist, but the short-grown man disagrees, “No, you are not. You will go into Brienne’s chamber and stay there until I tell you to get out.”

“But…,” Arya means to object, but Tyrion is having none of it. “I lead this septry, which means you are to abide by my rules. And my rule is that you stay where I tell you to.”

Arya grumbles as she makes for Brienne’s chamber, reckoning that despite her insistence, it might be for the best to rouse the other woman in case they have to escape or fight, _whichever it may be_ , whereas Tyrion walks down the narrow staircase towards the heavy wooden door into which, after all this time, someone came to bring him something painfully yet soothingly familiar.

Because Tyrion, contrary to what the young girl seems to believe to know, did not forget it all at the bottom of his clay cups. He washed some of the dust away, numbed some of the pain, but in the end, he never forgot about the two, his heart and mind would not allow for it.  

Tyrion, meanwhile, made his way down to the portal, not really surprised at the fervor with which the person on the other side is banging against the door over and over again, in the hope to seemingly bring it down with bare fists.

_Though that may be more like my brother after all, if he were in his human shape right now._

After all, Jaime was rather outspoken about what he would do to him if they were to ever meet again.

“We are closed for the night! Please return tomorrow for the morning sermon. The Seven are currently asleep,” Tyrion calls out, keeping his voice light, even though his mind is all the while running circles to get rid of the numbness in favor of his great mind which he normally tends to keep small and silent, so not to drown in the sorrows and pain of the past coming to haunt him with every thought flitting across his mind.

“You will open up for us,” a man with a booming voice demands from the other side, and for all Tyrion can judge long since out of patience – _if he ever possessed any in the first place_.

“And who are you?” Tyrion asks as innocently-sounding as possible.

“Men of the Queensguard,” the man retorts.

 _That means either Jaime didn’t kill all of them or they had some more men who only caught up to them just now_ , Tyrion thinks to himself. _In either case, men of the Queensguard are not to be trusted – as the Queen is not to be trusted_.

A painful lesson he learned by far too late.

“At such unholy hours? The men of the Queensguard deserve better than that,” Tyrion argues.

“Ever the more a reason to grant us guest right,” the leader of the group argues. Tyrion can make out the sound of him waving his arm up and down, likely to gesture at his men to do something, whichever it may be, though the clinking of his armor gives the man away regardless of the fact.

“I am afraid that I don’t have the capacities to welcome you sufficiently,” Tyrion insists.

“You are charged with treason to the Crown by virtue of granting refuge to criminals,” the man warns him.

_And I was charged with murdering my mother by the woman who wears that Crown now, and yet I was not brought to the Queen’s justice, and I want it to stay that way._

“And I may remind you that by virtue of being an institution under the direct rule of the Faith, it is our obligation to grant all those refuge seeking it from the worldly charges held against them. Which, in turn, means that any charges you have against the people who may or may not be in my presence right as we are speaking, can only be handed over to the justice of the Faith, whose executioner is, by rights, the High Septon,” Tyrion recites from the law books he went over and over by the time he thought he could get his brother and Brienne out by simply using the power of the written word, though that proved futile in the end. “So, unless you are the High Septon yourself, I am afraid I must keep the gates closed, Ser.”

“We are not here to play any games, open up now!” the man barks.

“I am a faithful septon trying to keep to my teachings, good Ser,” Tyrion argues. “I am merely carrying out the laws of the Faith, which should be rule for all of us, as the Queen herself announced when the Twin Pillars were…”

“Stop that now.”

“But I am just tying to explain my situation. You do see that we have quite a conundrum here. It would be different if you had a written permit of some kind to take whoever may be in this septry, though I have not seen any criminals around here, by the way, on behalf of the Faith.”

“We are men of the _Queensguard_.”

“And unless the Queensguard becomes a Sevenguard or Faithguard or what not, I am afraid I must insist that the laws of the Gods are abided, or else your and my salvation would be at stake, good Ser. I can only recommend you to take refuge in the next town over. It’s not at all that far away, and they have some fine ale, I assure you.”

Tyrion can hear the man turning around to his fellows. “Grab that tree trunk from over there. We will break the gate open, now!”

The dwarf takes three steps back once he hears and sees the men pounding against the wooden door, cringing once he sees the hinges starting to bend, which convinces Tyrion that the time has come to leave the words aside and make a run for it after all. Thus, he sets out back up the stairs as fast as his short legs carry him, over to the chamber where Brienne and Arya are hopefully still in.

“They are coming for us,” he says breathlessly as he comes through the door, surprised only for a second to see Brienne already standing, sporting the kind of expression she always wears when times are grim – determined, ready to face whatever danger may come their way.

As Jaime once told him, you always know when that woman is up for a fight. And that moment seems to have arisen yet again.

“How many?” the blonde woman asks, continuously rolling her injured shoulder to adjust to the pain. While she knows that this may cause a bit of damage, she rather suffers a bit more pain for a few more days than lose the lives of Arya and Tyrion and her own because her arm locks in the wake of an unexpected movement.

“Six, seven, maybe eight. It was hard to tell,” Tyrion tells her. “And I am not sure whether they had more to come.”

“Do you have a sword?” the tall woman asks. “Give me a passable blade and I will take care of this in no time.”

Brienne would rather not engage in a fight against those men, but those harsh times have taught her that sometimes this is apparently the only alternative. Melees are something entirely else from fighting for survival. She learned that the very hard way, but now she is ready without a moment of hesitation.

_Because there is no choice but to keep on living until the goal is achieved._

“This is a septry. The best I have is a rusty cooking knife. What use would I have for a sword? My arms are too short,” Tyrion answers.

“Then give me a bloody cooking knife,” Brienne curses, gritting her teeth.

“But m’lady, your shoulder…,” Arya means to argue, but Brienne is not having it, “You are under my protection, don’t forget that yet again, Lady Arya. And so I will guard you, with injured shoulder or without.”

“But she has the rights of it. Come with me now, I may have an alternative,” Tyrion objects.

“ _Alternative_? Those didn’t turn out well for us last time, you may recall,” Brienne scoffs.

“But on this you will have to… trust me.”

The blonde shakes her head. “Do I have a choice?”

Though Brienne will have to admit that she didn’t have a choice in a long time, so this actually seems to be more of a continuation of that exact circumstance more than anything else. For a woman as strong as her, it’s very painful to realize time and time again that she is powerless against those kinds of things because you cannot fight against them with the tip of your blade or your bare fist.

Sometimes she wished the voices of the people down Flea Bottom had carried all the way up to the Red Keep, those who said that they would rather have a man the likes of Duncan the Tall rule them if he were still alive, because that man knew honor at least.

But those are actually the kinds of choice they don’t get to make, Brienne even less so.

“Not really, I am afraid,” Tyrion answers with a grimace.

“Then lead the way,” she sighs.

The dwarf nods his head before rushing out the door. Brienne gestures at Arya to go ahead, evidently to have the girl’s back, and on any other circumstance, the brunette would have meant to object, but she knows the situation is too severe to argue with Brienne right now, so she keeps her mouth shut and walks ahead.

The three proceed through the kitchen, where Brienne and Arya grab some rusty cooking knives anyway because they offer at least some kind of protection when it comes to close combat.

“Follow me!” Tyrion calls out, already climbing a narrow staircase leading upwards. “Quick, I can hear them already!”

Arya and Brienne are quick to follow the short man as he guides them up the narrow passage, which twirls around in small circles. Once at the top of the tower, Tyrion pushes the wooden door open towards the platform.

The two women frown at a large wooden object up by the battlement, wrapped into what appears to be old and badly sewed-together robes of other brothers of the Faith.

“What is that?” Arya asks as Tyrion walks up to the thing and starts to pull on the cloth to tear it down to reveal a wooden construction underneath. “I call it the Scorpion. My own invention, I may add.”

“That’s one gigantic crossbow, even more so for a dwarf,” Arya comments, still rather mesmerized by the thing.

“The bigger the better, I reckoned. I wanted to have something to fend off the burglars that kept coming by. Normally, a badly aimed bolt will keep them away out of fright, though I fear that this will not suffice for those men,” Tyrion explains.

Back in the day, he always had his brother to come to his defense, but after Jaime turned his back on him back in the White Swords Tower and told him to be gone, Tyrion slowly came to the realization that he had to defend himself now. And since there is no way for Tyrion to ever ascend to the realm of fighters and knights, he reckoned he might just as well use his knowledge gathered from the hundreds and hundreds of books he devoured to build something that would keep him safe.

Though Tyrion would trade being protected by his brother just one more time against the Scorpion in a heartbeat.

_It’s just that it’s not going to happen in all likability._

“Well, I happen to have a good aim,” Brienne announces confidently, setting her jaw in a straight line as determination starts to flood her. “Maybe we can keep at least some of them away. But we have to be quick about it.”

The tall woman walks up to the device, bends down to grab one of the big wooden bolts, but drops it in the same motion, almost doubling over from the pain shooting up her arm, all the way to the tips of her fingers.

“M’lady!” Arya calls out, rushing up to her aid.

“It’s fine, it’s fine… I just…,” Brienne mutters, biting her lower lip. She rather wants to do things by herself to see them being done, only ever having found it in herself to trust Jaime as blindly as she did and does. However, Brienne has to admit to herself that she can’t do it all alone, so she adds through gritted teeth, “I just… I need some help with the bow. Can you do that?”

The young girl nods her head frantically. “Yes, of course.”

Together, the two heave the wooden beam on top of the machine.

“You have to turn that crank over there to pull the string back,” Tyrion says, his eyes fixed on the men still ramming the tree trunk against the door to get inside.

Arya readily jumps over to do so, and Brienne, if reluctantly, lets the dark-haired girl follow through with that, realizing that her arm is not doing her any favors at this point of time. She has to save her powers for later, Brienne is aware, because she dares to doubt that one bolt is going to solve all of their problems.

They never get that lucky – and likely won’t ever.

_Because we are truly cursed._

“Now, if you turn the other crank, you can rotate it to the left and the right. Higher and lower are regulated with the lever over there,” Tyrion explains, gesturing frantically. “But you have to be quick! They are almost through! I just replaced that bloody door a year ago! Seven Hells!”

“A bit over to the left until I tell you to stop,” Brienne orders, all the while struggling to adjust the rest, but the tall woman is used to pain. You just have to swallow it down, not minding how tough it is to chew it. You just hold on for one more moment, and then another, until the pain becomes a throb, and then over and over again.

“Stop. That’s good. And now…,” Brienne mutters, her eyes fixed on the target ahead, briefly thinking back to the last time Jaime and she spend a day in freedom, before all turned to darkness and badness, in the woods outside the city, making a contest out of shooting apples off of a branch, to determine who was the best shot.

_Jaime lamented all the while back that the wind kept him from winning, of course._

However, that is soon forgotten, fades into nothingness as she pulls the lever that releases the gigantic bolt and sends it flying. The three watch with craned necks as the wooden beam flies through the air as though it was weightless, only to crash with all its apparent weight into the trunk, knocking three of the men into the moat around the septry.

“You are good at this!” Tyrion calls out almost too cheerfully for the gravity of the overall situation. “I can normally count myself lucky if I shoot anywhere near close to them.”

“The remaining ones will come anyway,” Brienne argues, licking her lips. “They broke through with the last stroke of the battering ram. But that is the only way they can get up here?”

“Yes,” Tyrion confirms, nodding his head.

“Then our best chance is to keep them from getting to the platform.”

“How so?” Tyrion asks.

“I will fend them off while they are still climbing the stairs. The staircase is narrow enough that you can only walk up by yourself. That means I can take on them one by one. If they are out on the platform, they have the chance of cornering us,” Brienne explains, her mind already racing through all that she learned about sword fight over the years, from Goodwin as well as some things from Jaime, though he liked to tell her even those things she long since knew about. “If I manage to disarm one of them, I think I can get the upper hand. I can strike with my right, but they will have to cut with their left.”

“Ah, I remember having read that in a book once that this is why they have the staircase turn this way around, so that’s what it’s good for, ha!” Tyrion comments with a smile he doesn’t mean, trying desperately to conceal his own fright, well aware that Brienne is nowhere near proper health – and up against men of the Queensguard with no more than some rusty kitchen knife.

“Then we will wait. They cannot surprise us, which means that even without the weapons, we may gain the upper hand,” Brienne says, striding over to the door to take position, to focus.

“I will have to rely on you for that assessment. I may be a good tactician, but I know nearly nothing about proper fight with swords and weapons,” Tyrion tells her.

“You don’t say?” Brienne huffs, but then turns her attention back around to Arya one more time. “I want you to get behind me and stay there.”

“But your shoulder,” the young girl insists.

“This is no request, this is an order,” Brienne demands.

Arya stands up a little straighter at that, earnestly intimidated by the sudden change in the woman’s presence. “Yes, m’lady.”

Brienne looks at the door, twisting the rusty kitchen knife in her right hand over and over to accustom to the movements and stinging pain spreading throughout her. However, none of that pain can compare to what she suffered in the Red Keep, Brienne reminds herself, in the black cells, in Jaime’s chamber when everything spun out of and past their control.

_Compared to that, any wound is all but a scratch._

“Did you fight with kitchen cutlery very often?” Tyrion asks, craning his neck to see something.

“I try not to,” Brienne replies curtly. “They are coming now.”

And so, she sees the men come up the stairs with swords raised, ready to fight, ready to die for the mission they were assigned by the Queen, but Brienne is ready to fight for survival, for protection, and that seems to be what the men underestimate once they see her rush forward with no more than a cooking knife.

Arya can do nothing much but stare as the tall woman who looks strong, to be sure, but whom she would have guessed to move slow and with brusque steps, cuts past the men’s defenses with a curious kind of grace that the young girl has never quite seen before. It’s different from her water dance, that much she can tell, just like it’s different from Jaime’s fighting style, but even with a rusty kitchen knife, Brienne fights as though she had Valyrian steel in her hand, ducking under, delivering a punch to one man’s jaw with her left to send him tumbling back down the stairs against the other men quick to get him back up.  

She already thought that Lady Brienne must be a skilled fighter if she managed to defeat Ser Jaime in a melee, but seeing the tall woman move like that against the odds of her injury and overall condition, it brings about a strange kind of awe inside the young girl, well aware of the danger of the situation as a whole.

_That is what a true knight looks like._

With a growl, Brienne lets the next man’s blow cut past her to get closer to his arm, grabs on to it and turns it, no matter how that sends needles and daggers up her spine. She then knocks his hand against the stone wall until the sword falls from his hand. Brienne kicks him square in the chest, then, to send him flying back down the stairs to use the momentum to grab the sword.

The touch of the leather does great to reassure the tall woman as she adjusts her grip on the unfamiliar blade. She clasps the sword with both hands to give some relief to her aching shoulder, but the next man is already up for a fight again, so Brienne starts swinging the blade over and over, well aware that if she lets the men too close, she is bound to lose as she does not enjoy the protection of her armor at this point of time. There is nothing but thin wool and cotton between her and the edge of those men’s swords, eager for blood.

She manages to make the man retreat at last as she disarms him, but from the corner of her eye she can see that the others have used their time to get into position to fire bolts at her. Brienne reels back as the bolts are sent flying.

“Careful!” she shouts as the bolts whoosh past her head, though thankfully, Arya already pulled Tyrion aside to safety. Brienne scrambles backwards on her back, knowing that her advantage is now gone as the bolts will mean her death as the narrow staircase would make her too much of a target.

For the fraction of a moment, Brienne dares to look up to the sky, which already took on a threatening shade of orange, announcing that a new day is not far away anymore, is in fact incredibly close, far too close. If she doesn’t win this fight before the sun rises, the girl and septon now under her protection will be exposed.

And she can’t let that happen.

Thus, she gets up and motions to the left to start cutting down on the men before they can even do so much but aim their bolts at her. Brienne’s arm starts to protest under every movement now, however, there is no alternative but to keep going. She will never yield to a man like that, of that Brienne is certain. They do not compare to Jaime by any means – and if he didn’t make her yield, then they don’t even stand a chance, her injury notwithstanding.

“Watch out!” Arya shouts. Brienne turns herself just in time to dodge the attack of another man before carrying on. The young girl looks around to Tyrion. “We have to do something.”

“You mean…,” Tyrion mutters, his gaze following hers when Arya locks eyes on one object in particular. “I have never tried that before.”

“Well, then the time seems to have arrived after all,” Arya tells him. Tyrion nods his head. “Right.”

Brienne, meanwhile, still switches back and forth between running or ducking for cover from the arrows and bolts flying her way and taking on the men who dare fight her with the sword. She would like to get her hands on one of the crossbows or just a bow, but the men know better than to surrender another weapon to her.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by her that they do well to push her further and further towards the battement so that she has no way of escape anymore.

The familiar sound of wood creaking has Brienne almost want to turn her head, but she doesn’t dare to leave the men out of sight for a second, even more so not to draw attention to Arya and Tyrion, which means she can do nothing much but stare as another gigantic bolt flies past her and knocks three men right back down the door thanks to the impact.

“Wooooooooh!” Tyrion cries out, standing at the top of the Scorpion, which just fired the bolt that may have saved Brienne’s life, but the tall woman doesn’t get to call out a thanks as one of the few men standing, bleeding from a head wound, starts towards her and just delivers blow after blow after blow until she feels the cold stone of the battlement against her back.

“Just yield,” she curses as she fends off his blows, but the man cannot be convinced, and so he starts to aim at her shoulder in particular, to the point that Brienne can feel her legs giving way underneath her, the pain too much, far too much, but that is when the assaults stop all of a sudden. Brienne opens her eyes wider as she sees the man’s eyes turning completely blank.

She doesn’t see it coming when the man just falls forward, apparently losing consciousness right at that moment, the impact of him falling against her so hard that it knocks her right through the crenel, over the edge.

Arya watches in horror as the tall woman’s arms stretch out and whirl about as her body bends over the edge.

“Brienne!” she shouts at the top of her voice, rushing forward as fast as her feet carry her.

The young girl makes a run for it, already fearing for the worst, all the while reminded of how one moment Syrio was there, laughing, telling her stories, only for the next moment having completely vanished safe for some broken furniture and smears of blood on the ground.

Yet, to her great relief, there is no smear of blood on the rocks below, as Brienne is dangling on the edge, somehow having managed to hold on, though she is on the verge of slipping away as she is holding on with her injured arm. Arya takes a hold of the woman’s wrist, leaning over the edge as well, for once wishing more than anything else that she was a tall man, someone heavy enough to pull her back up.

“Let go!” Brienne curses from below. “Or else you will fall along with me.”

“But you will fall if I don’t!” Arya insists, screwing her eyes shut as she gathers all strengths she has to pull her up, to keep her alive, because Arya doesn’t want to lose someone she cares about yet again.

_Not again, not again, not again._

“The sun’s about to rise! Do it! Do it now!” Brienne screams.

Arya means to object, but that is when the older woman turns her wrist so that the young girl loses grip on her. The brunette girl lets a shout as she sees Brienne fall, but then the sun blinds her as the first rays break past the treetops to cast light on that which lay in the shadows before.

The sound of hooves tapping on the wooden bridge down below cuts through the deafening silence.

“That is Jaime!” Tyrion calls out, leaning over the crenel, almost falling over in the process as he sees his brother with drawn sword as the men they knocked down with the bolt try to enter he septry as well.

From above, a shadow cuts through the darkness, followed by a shriek.

As Jaime secured the men, he looks up as well, a smile tugging at his lips as he sees a familiar shadow slowly sailing down, carried by the wind until the hawk that used to be a woman fancying sword and chainmail more than silks and dances sits down on his outstretched arm, returning to where she belongs, right by his side.

Jaime lets a sigh of relief, a smile tugging at his lips as he strokes the bird’s feathers, biting back a single tear. “I'm glad you're alive. Who else would annoy me all day long if not you, huh?”

Jaime dismounts Honor, all the while focusing on the hawk sitting on his arm, glad for the familiar weight, having spent the remains of the past day going over and over what would have been if she had not survived the injury until he was gone again, the way he is gone every night, surprised to wake back up to Honor standing there, seemingly having heard the wolf’s call. Though thankfully, his wolf apparently understood not to go off too far in the wrong direction, in fact circling the woods close to the septry.

He is pulled out of his thoughts when he hears footsteps coming closer, until he can see the dark-haired girl peeking her head out of the hole that once was the gate.

“Oh, thank the Gods,” Arya sighs, clutching at her collar for a moment. “For a moment I thought she actually fell down.”

“Fell down?” Jaime repeats with a grimace, looking back at the bird sitting on his arm.

“She fell over the edge when fighting those other Queensguard men. She told me to let go because the sun was rising,” Arya explains.

Jaime grins at that, turning to the hawk. “And you accuse me of being the reckless one? Look at you.”

However, his eyes then drift back to the young girl standing there. “So you know what we are.”

She nods her head. “Yes.”

“Well, I suppose you had to find out at some point anyway,” he exhales wearily. “But I thank you, for sticking to our deal.”

“I owe you a debt. And her now yet again as she saved my life up there. Not just Lannisters want to pay their debts, you see,” Arya tells him, meaning it, her heart still beating far too fast in her chest as she looks at the bird sitting on Jaime’s arm.

That is the woman who came to her protection eve after all that betrayal, who was willing to give her life for her and Tyrion, even though she has reason to hate them both for what they brought upon the two. It’s as Tyrion said: Lady Brienne may not be fair of face, but she has the fairest heart Arya ever came to encounter.

Jaime rewards the young girl with the hint of a smile before his attention draws back to the gate, to the shadows it casts, because he can already make out a familiar shape within.

“A part of me already thought you might be dead,” Jaime calls out to the person hiding in the darkness.

Slowly, cautiously, Tyrion peels himself out of the shadows to step into the light, blinking as his eyes set on his brother who looks very much changed from the last time they spoke one another, though one thing certainly did not change with time, and that is the look he shoots him, the feeling of betrayal within, the disappointment, but also the pain and shame.

“Not dead, no,” the younger man answers, his head bowed.

“But… I am grateful, for this,” Jaime adds, nodding at Brienne and the part of the bandage that stuck to the bird’s wing even after the transformation. “After all, we don’t have any more affairs with one another ever since that… time.”

“Brother, I...,” Tyrion means to say, but Jaime stops him from speaking with his mere presence.

“I said I am grateful. Don't expect more of me,” Jaime hisses at him. “And you have forsaken your right of calling me your brother.”

“I… I told you that I am sorry, brothe… _Jaime_. And the Gods know that I mean it,” Tyrion argues pleadingly, slowing his steps, but nonetheless drawing closer to his brother whom he is not supposed to call that, he is aware, because that is what he told him when they last met, and meant it, every syllable, Tyrion is sure.

“I know that you mean it, Tyrion,” Jaime argues, looking aside. “But it doesn’t matter. The damage is done, every day and every night for the rest of our time.”

“And I am most aware of the circumstance,” the younger brother replies. “It’s just…”

“It’s enough. I thank you. I am grateful… don’t test me further, Tyrion,” Jaime hisses, looking to the side.

And Arya, watching all from aside, can see that the older brother pains about as much saying those words as it must hurt Tyrion to hear them. It’s truly a cruel destiny, an unfair fate, that turns brother against brother, though there is no doubt in her mind that there is love to connect them, still.

“In any case, I… I should be on my way again. I have things to do,” Jaime says, looking at the hawk. “We have things to do.”

The last mission.

The last way to defy destiny in favor of one last choice.

Jaime already means to turn away, but that is when Tyrion calls out to him, stepping closer once more, “Wait up, please, Jaime! You have to hear me out.”

“I heard you out the last time – and what did it earn me? The loss of my last kin!” Jaime curses. At some point he always wished that Tyrion had not told him about his involvement in that whole mess. Then it would have been just Cersei, but Tyrion had to speak the truth, and the truth was unbearable for him.

Jaime warned him and he didn’t listen, and that even though Tyrion is supposed to be the clever one of the family. He warned him and he threw all of their fortune away for some wine that tasted oh so sweet, and then only ever told him by a time it was far too late for Jaime to change anything about it anymore.

Jaime warned him and Tyrion didn’t listen, and then he was too much of a coward to admit to his wrongdoings right from the start, instead left Jaime and Brienne unaware that they were under scrutiny of the Queen for that which she managed to draw from Tyrion’s tongue.

He let them proceed towards a knife already turned at them, because he could not open his clever mouth until it was too late.

“I know, I know all that. But please, there may be a way to undo all of this! There might be a way for me to repay my debt, and you know how we Lannisters handle it with the debts…,” Tyrion means to say, surprising Arya that he speaks up to Jaime after all. Though perhaps he simply didn’t want to reveal himself to the young girl at that point of time.

“I am not here to serve your redemption, brother. If you want to make your peace, you will have to make it with the Gods or your precious wine, but not with me.”

“So listen to me, Jaime! I found a way out! I found it, don’t you hear me? I found a way out!”

“With drink you mean? Wine is not the solution to your problems, no matter how tempting its taste may be for you, still. Didn’t you learn that by now?” Jaime snarls, well aware that the skin attached to Tyrion’s waist contains the red liquid that loosened up his clever tongue so much that he told Cersei all she had to know and more.

“It helps me think! Imagine what I would be like sober!” Tyrion tries to joke, but has to see that it falls flat on Jaime, so he goes on to say, “But that’s not the matter. The matter is that I spent all this time studying the books, the scrolls, every small note or shred of parchment and foreign text I could get my little hands on... and drinking and whoring, I will admit, but _mostly_ reading... and I found a way to break the curse, Jaime. I found a way to break it!”

“Nonsense,” Jaime argues, shaking his head.

They tried all within their powers to break this vicious cycle. Brienne and he stood face to face on an open field and tried to catch a glimpse of the other before the lights of day came out or before the moon started to peek through the clouds, but they never saw each other, they never caught each other.

There is no way out of this other than making it public, collecting the debt of their lives, even if it will be their lives they will have to give up as a price.

This is the only choice they have left.

“It's the truth I am telling you. Three days from now, there is your chance, all our chance, right up in the sky. For me to redeem myself, to save you - and _Brienne_ ,” Tyrion insists, stepping a little closer yet again.

Jaime looks to the side, swallowing thickly. They long since gave up on prospect and hope. Their hope lies in revenge now, in bringing to the light the injustice they were made to suffer at the hands of a woman he once loved, a woman he wanted to protect until she turned against him – and against the woman also under his protection now.

“Listen to me. I know that I am the last person you want to see, and the last person you want to take advice from, but there _is_ a chance for you. So you may live. Together and not eternally apart. But you have to hear me out, you have to listen to me,” Tyrion insists. “You have to trust me.”

“How would I trust you?”

“Brienne did,” Arya comments quickly, which has Jaime growl under his breath. He would rather ride off at once to spare himself the pain looking at his brother’s face brings him.

“Be quick about it your folly, then. I have a mission to carry out and slay the people responsible,” Jaime tells him at last, reckoning that he would do best getting over with this quickly.

“You _must not_ , brother… I mean, _Jaime_. Or else the curse will never be broken. But there is a way to do this. In three days, your chance will arise, from the ashes that your lives were turned into. All you have to do is to enter King's Landing on that day. There will be a procession, for the celebration of the Mother, for which the Queen and the High Sparrow will be in the Great Sept of Baelor to bring offerings for the Seven in a grand ceremony. If you confront them that day, as man and woman, together, then... then you can break the curse. I read it, it must be true. It said so in the scrolls,” Tyrion tells him breathlessly, fearing that if he takes too long to say it all, Jaime will turn around even sooner and take his leave.

_This is my last chance. This is the only chance I have._

“It will _not_ , because she will be a hawk by that time and I will transform back into a wolf by night. As any other damned day for the rest of our days!” Jaime curses, gritting his teeth, his eyes glistening with unshed tears at the mere thought of it. “And only the Gods know why I wasn't given the courtesy of transforming into a lion at least, instead of a damned wolf. Not even the right animal they could grant me.”

“Listen. You are right, for as long as there is night and day, you cannot confront them together, as man and woman. But... but it's different now, it will be! This day is your one chance. For that will be a day without a night and a night without a day,” Tyrion tells him hastily.

He read it in the scrolls, over and over again. Tyrion knows it true, or at the very least, he knows that this alternative at least carries the banner of hope, whereas Jaime’s plain only ever carries a last stand against those who wronged them.

The seasoned knight shakes his head. “Go back inside. Go back to your drink. Do what you are best at and drink until you forget it all, Tyrion.”

“It's the truth I am speaking!” the younger man insists, stomping his feet.

“Like you spoke it to Brienne? Promising her to keep her secrets?” Jaime retorts through gritted teeth. “Like you promised me to never lie to me or keep secrets from me? Like you promised me that you knew nothing of what was going on until you crawled to my chamber to confess?”

“Jaime, please! I... we both know that I am not more faithful than you are. But in the scriptures of the Seven I found the answer to this curse. The Gods have forgiven me, even Brienne doesn’t seem to hate me as much anymore, and I...,” he means to say, but the older man cuts him off harshly, "But _I_ haven't forgiven you.”

Tyrion bows his head. He already feared for this to come, but that didn’t lessen the blow, didn’t lessen the impact: His own brother doesn’t trust him anymore, can’t bring himself to trust him at all, something that Tyrion could be as certain of as he was of his great intellect. He could always be sure that his brother would protect him, that his brother loved him fiercely, and that he enjoyed the rare gift of Jaime Lannister’s trust.

But all of that is gone now.

All of that has disappeared.

“Get out of my sight,” Jaime says, his voice shaking with anguish and anger all the same.

“Jaime, I beg you.”

“Go back inside and drink as much as you want, but stay out of our affairs. You meddled in them last time – and see where it got us!” Jaime curses, screwing his eyes shut. “Stay away! Just… stay away.”

Arya, who watched that exchange in silence, can very well see that Jaime himself is likely struggling most in all this. He doesn’t want to be that cruel, the young girl can see it in the way he moves, can hear it in the way he speaks, but neither man seems he able to overcome the rift created by that which Tyrion helped bring about.

It’s a cruel destiny indeed, leaving all involved with so few choices to fetch from.

“… I will ask one more favor of you,” Jaime then says through gritted teeth. “Would you mind granting the girl shelter until her family comes to take her back – and send a secret letter to let the Lord of Winterfell know that you have Arya Stark here with you?”

“Hey!” the young girl pouts, not at all liking the sound of that suggestion.

“What did I tell you? I have other to do than babysit a runaway girl,” Jaime retorts. “You can even have your sword back if that makes you happy, but I won’t take you along. That is long since decided on.”

“Then don’t take me along, that doesn’t mean I am not coming along anyway,” Arya huffs, crossing her lean arms over her flat chest.

“What? I thought you wanted to get away from all this. Because it is King’s Landing that we will be returning to,” Jaime snorts.

“Which is convenient enough, since that lies in the same direction I would want to go,” Arya tells him, holding her chin up to come across as convinced and certain as she can. Because she made a choice, and she is intent on seeing it done.

“I won’t put your life at proxy another time, girl. You are the daughter of Eddard Stark. That man hates me enough even without putting his daughter in more danger than I already did,” Jaime argues, shaking his head.

The girl reminds him far too much of Brienne, stubborn till the bitter end.

“I still owe Lady Hawk… I mean Brienne a debt. She saved me up on the roof, she meant to protect me back by the camp, she protected me another time when you fought and got hurt because of me,” Arya insists, not ready to yield.

“Consider the debt paid so long you stay safe. You would be a fool to believe that Brienne would want for you to risk your life that way,” Jaime argues, still trying to figure out how he came into the position to having to reason with a girl who is nowhere near a grown woman by now.

Arya chews on her lip, thinking. She knows that once Jaime goes away, he won’t look back and she will have no way to catch up to him again. The only way to follow through with her choice of helping the two is if she proves herself useful, Arya is aware.

And that is when it dawns on her, out of the darkness she was in back in King’s Landing.

“You want to get to the Queen, don’t you?” Arya asks, then.

Jaime frowns. “What’s it to you?”

“I can get you to her,” she tells him promptly.

“Oh, do you? Since when?” Jaime huffs, not at all buying into what the girl has to say. He knows better than to listen to lies little girls tell so that they may get another shot of fleeing to Braavos, so not to be forced to confront her family.

“Since I escaped from the black cells, since I know a way through the sewer systems that lead straight to the Great Sept of Baelor,” the young girl announces.

The knight gapes at her for a moment, but then gathers himself again. “You are bluffing.”

“I am not.”

“Well, if so, tell me the way,” Jaime challenges her.

“I wouldn’t know how to show you the way even if I wanted to. I walked around in the dark most of the time, but once I am in, I can find my way around. I trained that sort of thing. I can take you to the Great Sept of Baelor,” Arya assures him. “So if you want your revenge to be achieved, you may want to reconsider accepting the aid of a runaway girl.”

Not that Arya is keen on helping Jaime carry out his revenge, but she knows that the only way to change the direction of a river’s flow is to toss in a stone, and so, if she wants to see that Jaime considers the alternative Tyrion just offered, she may have to put on the Mouse skin another time to be a small thief once more, if only for the man’s and the woman’s best. Because Arya tends to believe that this is the kind of scheme the Gods will forgive even though she promised not to lie anymore.

Jaime shakes his head. “You are mad.”

“So are you, you old coot,” Arya scoffs.

Jaime laughs at that. “Ned Stark will kill me, but then again… I am likely dying in the Sept anyway.”

He looks at the hawk, which flutters at wings at him. “Though you may still scratch my eyes out for even considering, huh?”

“The people are in an uproar in the city. The City Watch will know that you may be coming back. People know you around that place. You have best chances going through the sewers with me. And deep down, you know it’s the truth I am speaking,” Arya points out to him.

“I am to return you to your family,” Jaime insists regardless.

“Why not delay it for a few more days?” the young girls suggests. “They won’t know unless I were to tell them, and on that you can rest assured, I am good at keeping secrets.”

“Even if that worked some way, how would I believe that you are going to return to your family after the deed is done?” Jaime argues.

Because he won’t put that annoying girl in danger just because he means to carry out his revenge. He has seen enough people suffer for their destiny, and so he is done leaving people unprotected, unguarded.

“… You will keep Needle, simple as that,” Arya then says, sucking the inside of her cheek into her mouth. “You really think I would go without it again?”

“I must be mad,” Jaime sighs, not quite believing that he even considers, because a way inside King’s Landing is the one thing he could not acquire no matter his expeditions back into King’s Landing ever since they ran away.

And Jaime knows for a fact that the sewer system is a complicated matter meant to connect the entire city through hidden channels.

_It was those exact tunnels Aerys meant to use to set the entire city aflame, until I put an end to it and made sure no one would ever do such a thing again._

However, if there is a way against the odds of the measurements that he took by cutting off all passageways leading to the wildfire depots, it may indeed be the one way to get not just into the city, but inside the Sept, where the High Sparrow and the Queen will be together at last, granting him the one chance to confront the two with the truth that is their own injustice.

He looks at the hawk again. “And what do you think? Hm? I bet you would have your dear fun watching me tread through the city’s shit, wouldn’t you?”

The majestic bird shrieks at that, which has Jaime laugh again, because he knows that shriek, at least he tends to think he does.

“Well, then I suppose… I don’t have to ask you for that favor after all, Tyrion,” the knight says at last. “I am grateful for what you have done regardless, but I must be on my way.”

“It’s the right direction you are going, but it’s the wrong path you mean to take. If you go there only just to slay the High Sparrow and our sister, you will lose your life,” Tyrion insists.

“That is no life worth living anymore anyway,” Jaime argues before saddling back up, holding out his good hand to Arya to help her up as well.

It must be a kind of madness indeed.

He doesn’t look back as he gives the horse the spurs, knowing that his heart would sink at the sight of the man who used to be his precious, little brother watching on as he rides away. Jaime has a mission to accomplish, and Tyrion won’t keep him from it a second time.

Arya waves after the dwarf with a grimace. Tyrion waves back at her with a suddenly weak arm before turning around to walk back into the shadows from which he emerged.

* * *

After hours of riding, they make camp in the woods, this time back in the direction from which they came, though they took a different path, so not to leave too obvious tracks for those still eagerly watching them.

“So… I take Tyrion told you almost everything. Likely even more, granted that he seems like he didn’t keep away from his precious wine,” Jaime scoffs as he gives water to Honor, clapping the animal on the back for being such a forthcoming horse to even come up to him when in his wolf form.

“He told me… the most important things, I reckon. Though there is one thing he wouldn’t let me know,” Arya replies, having seated herself on a nearby log.

“Oh, thank the Seven!” Jaime huffs.

“What’s the point now of not telling me everything?” Arya asks, wrinkling her nose.

“That I don’t want you to know everything?”

“I can keep secrets.”

Jaime snorts at that. “That doesn’t mean I want to share them, girl, get that into your head.”

“I just wonder how you found one another again… Tyrion said that Cersei had you believe that Brienne was dead,” Arya argues.

“… That she did, yes,” Jaime answers, nodding his head very slowly, a shudder going through his entire body at the mere thought, the memory of that most pure dread and desperation back in the tower.

“So… how did that happen?” Arya asks.

“When Cersei told me that they had her executed… I believed it, actually. At first. Why wouldn’t she do that? My sister had gone such lengths just for this to happen, so why not that as well, right?” Jaime explains, licking his lips. “But then… I decided that it didn’t matter, that I had to find her, alive or dead. I had to get out, I had to break out. I couldn’t… I couldn’t let Cersei have it, have her.”

The mere thought of Cersei winning over Brienne in that way was so sickening to Jaime that his heart could barely take it as he paced the tower until he could see the tracks of his feet on the stone ground.

Jaime is pulled out of that darkness of memories back to the light of day as he can hear the fluttering of Brienne’s wings and the hawk lands on his shoulder, as though to offer comfort through her mere presence.

And little does she know how much of a comfort that apparently is for Jaime.

“I had the High Sparrow summoned to my chamber some days later… For a moment I even considered whether he was just misguided by my sister, you see, being a religious fanatic… but he kept talking about how Brienne’s death was for the best. That this saved the lives of hundreds and thousands because our _disease_ didn’t spread… That they protected hundreds and thousands by exorcising those demons from her and me. The man wouldn’t even know what it means to save hundreds and thousands of lives. I should know. That’s what I did back when I slew Aerys to prevent him from setting the city ablaze, I…,” Jaime mutters, biting on his tongue.

He rather does not speak of Aerys to anyone, having decided at some point to contain that pain inside his heart and carry it with him, out of fear that it would spill out again and catch flame.

“So that’s what it was?” Arya asks, tilting her head. She heard the stories about the Kingslayer, and they always painted it in such a fashion that he meant to overtake Aerys for his own gain, for that of his family. Others called it simple malice or the nature of the Lannisters.

And back in the day, Arya will admit, she believed those tales without a second of a doubt. Her father always told her to be weary of that man and the Lannisters at large. However, now that she got to know Jaime Lannister, got to witness his passionate will to protect the people he cares about, and even those he claims not to care about, Arya tends to believe what just slipped from the man’s mouth.

“Yes… that’s what it was… Aerys, he… he meant to kill many people and I… put an end to that, but that’s not the matter… the matter is that… that the High Sparrow kept pushing on the matter that it was Brienne all along. That she was the evil because she was the one who cursed me when I told him over and over that she had no part in it. However, no matter my reasoning, he kept talking about Brienne as all the things she didn’t do, all the things she wasn’t, and I just couldn’t take it anymore. I just couldn’t. I attacked him, scratched him, pushed him against the wall and choked him,” Jaime tells the young girl, his fists clenching and unclenching at the thought. Maybe he should have squeezed a little harder back then, but he can’t change that anymore anyway. It’s all over now, and the choices of the past are no longer open for them now that so much time has passed.

“I was ready to tear him apart with my bare hands. That had him scared, likely for the first time ever in his life… He thought I was turning into a beast on my own free, tried to transform into a monster to tear him apart, even though he had grown convinced that I was completely innocent and that no one but Brienne was to blame,” Jaime carries on. “He was taken from the chamber and people started to believe that I was turning into an animal, wholly. And that is when I realized that I could roll with that… and so I did. I had them believe that when they dared to enter, be it for food or drink, I would kill them. No one dared to come in, which gave me enough time to remove the bars that were on my window and get out when, at last, the iron budged to the strength of a single man.”

Jaime can still remember the pain of his fingernails breaking off as he kept working on the small screws with bare hands as they had taken anything usable away from him before they left him to himself. The taste of his own blood on his tongue as he licked at the bloody fingers until at last, the iron budged. And the moment that should have been relief, but wasn’t – because it was no escape to a good future, a better outcome. At that point of time, there was no sure way to tell whether Brienne wasn’t actually dead, buried somewhere far away without Jaime having any chance to find her grave.

That made it no less necessary for him to go.

“And how did you manage to make the wolf jump out the window?” Arya asks quietly. Because that was something Tyrion mentioned, but never quite explained to her. The young girl has seen the White Sword Tower from afar often enough while roaming the streets as Arry, and she is certain that such a jump was more than a simple risk to take.

“I waited until nightfall, stood up on the windowsill and let myself fall at the moment I started to transform,” Jaime answers.

It was a choice he didn’t even think about. It came to him without much doubt. He only knew that the one choice he had open was to go forward to find Brienne. Nothing else mattered, and so, he jumped.

“Rather dramatic, wouldn’t you think?” Arya huffs.

_Though he and Lady Brienne seemingly have a similar style regarding the matter, considering what happened up on the tower today._

“Do you think wolves just jump down a tower unless they are in danger?” Jaime scoffs. “I had to give the animal a push.”

“Which has me wondering how you ever came by Oathkeeper again,” the young girl points out. “Because I can’t imagine that the wolf fetched it.”

“He didn't. The wolf is normally rather scared of humans. Thus, when they realized me gone, there were people with swords and torches everywhere, and the wolf meant to get away from all that. All I can say is that I awoke hidden away in some narrow alleyway that they didn’t go looking for just yet because it was down Flea Bottom to where they pour the piss and whatever else,” Jaime tells her. The moment of waking up in that stink naked was rather humiliating, but at least it granted him a chance to get out of his confinements, past the iron bars.

“So you sneaked back into the Red Keep to get the sword?” Arya asks, frowning. “That is not a smart move, I think.”

“I was rather forced because they came to Flea Bottom by day’s rise, so I had to go the opposite direction, and truly, who would expect me to go there of all places, right?” Jaime laughs. “Sometimes you have to surprise your enemy, easy as that. Do that which they expect least. So I got into the armory, gathered all that I could, and then sneaked out of the city before they ever learned of my presence there."

Though it would be a lie to say that Jaime didn’t feel tempted to take Oathkeeper and try his luck at getting sweet, bitter revenge for Brienne, the High Sparrow or his sister, didn’t matter. However, something pulled Jaime away before he could make that step forward. And in the end, he is thankful for that one decision, or else he likely would have found his end not knowing that Brienne was apparently not dead.

“And what did you do once you were out?” Arya asks.

“I took refuge in the woods, kept off the usual tracks while searching for Brienne. I didn’t know that she was a bird, so I kept asking around for a tall woman with blonde hair, mannish looks, and big blue eyes. No one knew her. No one saw her,” Jaime answers.

And with every time he got a shake of a head or a flat-out no, Jaime found his resolve wane and his fear rising that the reason for it was that she was indeed no longer amongst the living, but that never stopped him.

Because that was a thing he could not choose but do.

He had to find her, simply had to.

“Then how did you find her in the end?” the young girl asks.

Jaime smirks at that. “I didn’t.”

“What do you mean?” Arya frowns.

“She found me, easy as that. I got myself into a bit of a trouble when I ran into a bunch of thugs wanting coin I didn’t have. You see, my right hand had taken some damage during the fall from the tower. Otherwise I would have cut them down, no doubt. When I told them that I had no coin, they argued that they would also take the sword as a toll. Obviously that was not going to happen. I drew the sword and was ready to fight them, though I will have to admit that I overestimated myself. My hand was a mess already, and I was malnourished as I kept off the usual tracks most of my time, living off of squirrels and berries most of my days. They were cornering me, ready to take my life…and for the fraction of a moment I was tempted to tell them to just do it, to end this misery, but then… a bird shrieked from above,” Jaime recounts, brushing the back of his index finger over the bird’s feathers.

Brienne always managed to make him hold on to life when he felt like giving up on it. And to this day, Jaime has no idea how the woman did it and still does it. After Aerys, he had given up on life. He concerned himself with duty, with the family and their protection. However, when Jaime crossed blades with Brienne at the melee, that changed something, brought a flame back to life that he thought had long since been doused. And even during that moment of weakness, she ignited that which Jaime thought he had lost.

“The hawk rained down on them like a blade cuts through butter. All were in shock as the bird kept assaulting them, even scratched one man’s eye out. I just stood there and watched as the hawk grabbed a heavy sword with the feet and tossed it into the nearby river, I watched as stones were dropped on the top of one man’s head… and that was when they retreated, seemingly believing me a kind of sorcerer commanding the beasts,” Jaime tells the young girl, his eyes all the while focused on the bird sitting on his arm.

“A majestic beast, tall, great wings, and blue feathers. A majestic beast with something in the eyes that no words can fathom. And that was when I just knew that… she had found me,” Jaime continues. “And it was only then that I understood what my sister had meant when she told me that we would be eternally apart.”

“This is so messed up,” Arya mutters.

“You’d have no idea,” Jaime huffs.

Because it is even worse than that, Jaime is aware. Because he brought that upon Brienne with his own carelessness. It wasn’t just Tyrion, Jaime knows that, and that is what makes it ever the more painful. To know that he was not careful enough.

That he didn’t protect her from this because he let his guard slip.

And that is a pathetic thing to admit for a man of the Kingsguard and Queensguard.

 _Or former man of the Kingsguard and Queensguard_ , Jaime reminds himself. After all, he heard not long after his disappearance that the Queen had him declared as dishonorably discharged from the services of the Queensguard. Jaime always reckoned that she just didn’t want rumors to spread that she actually executed her own brother because Jaime was well-known enough amongst the people that his disappearance couldn’t easily be explained or overlooked. And so, Jaime Lannister was said to have been dismissed at his own request and then disappeared from the face of the earth, which is true in a way, Jaime supposes, though he came to loathe the fact that his sister managed to gain something even from that.

“You know what I miss most about not being cursed?” he sighs.

“No, what?” the brunette asks, wrinkling her nose.

“Arguing with her,” he chuckles, glancing at the hawk. "We argued soooo much. Every day and every eve. It was ridiculous. Brienne was the only one who's never held her tongue against me. To her, it didn't matter that I was Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard, then Queensguard. For her, I was Jaime, just Jaime... I hated arguing with her back in the day, because she always wanted to win, no matter what. But now? Now I miss it. I can curse at her now and she wouldn't remember it once she opens her eyes in the night. And if she curses at me? I would never know once day rises again. I never thought I'd miss it, but now I do. I suppose it’s true what they say… that you have to lose something to learn of its worth.”

Arya nods her head slowly, all the while reminded of her family, of Syrio, all of whom she either left behind in the pursuit of her own goals or had ripped away from her because politics and faith started to meddle and wanted to exclude who did not share the view of the High Sparrow and the Queen. Ever since she started travelling with Jaime and Brienne, the young girl found her heart heavy with sorrow not just for their cause, but also for the fortune she had with her family, for the fortune she abandoned to pursue something else, something greater, she thought.

However, looking at Jaime as he keeps stroking the bird’s feathers, trying to bring back some memories of the better times, which were taken from them not by their own choice but those of others who meant them ill, it has Arya thinking.

Perhaps she made even more of a mistake than she ever dared to admit to herself as she roamed the streets of King’s Landing as Arry, as Mouse. Because there are people like Jaime and Brienne who did not choose their destiny and yet are ripped away from those they care about, though they never had the intention to be apart from them.

“And after that… you stuck together,” the young girl suggests.

“As we always did, yes. She tended to me the best she could when she was in her human shape,” Jaime tells her, glancing at his wrist. “I lost a lot of mobility in that hand, but that didn’t stop me from focusing all of my attention on going back to King’s Landing to demand justice for the injustice committed against her and me. Brienne wasn’t having it, instead lured the wolf the opposite direction every night until I gave in and took my rest. I was not at all well, but… I had her at least. That was more than I ever expected when I closed my eyes and jumped from the tower.”

He was in great pain because of the hand, his sword hand no less, but he was foremost in pain as it dawned on him whenever he awoke and found the bandages changed. The knowledge that she touched him in his wolf shape but that he could not feel the touch as he turned back into a man tore something apart inside Jaime that he didn’t know could break that easily, it broke like an eggshell at that one simple realization. That he would never be able to jest with her again, that he wouldn’t ever sword dance with her again. That he wouldn’t ever watch her quietly by the river they used to go to, to wash up and relish the water on her face as she looked up at the sun and when the light hit her just right, her straw-like hair seemed like a golden halo hanging high above her head. That he wouldn’t ever hear her hidden smile, covered by her big palms. That he wouldn’t ever call her “wench” to her face again, only just to see her turn red and scold him for the effrontery. That he couldn’t even give her so much as a squeeze of the hand, a brush of the fingers, a word of comfort, something to hold on to.

It was a pain Jaime didn’t know was so without limits that it knocked the air out of his lungs and made him stumble and fall some many times.

And Gods know how hard he tried to only capture one more glimpse of her. He held the hawk tight by the leather band to which the animal tends to hold on to during the day, so that she wouldn’t slip away. He held on as tight as he could, wanted to hold her close, keep her with him, for no more than a moment in time, but once the moon started to peek its head above the canopy, he was gone, and her former shape remained hidden from him.

Gods know that he tried and failed.

As he always seems to fail.

Because that seems to be the cruel destiny of Kingslayers.

Though the worst part remains that the Gods decided to assign Brienne to the same cruel destiny, regardless of the fact that she did no wrong, is the one thing good and true in his life that Jaime has a hard time fathoming how comes that the Gods despise her so.

“So there is no chance for you to communicate? Since you don’t know what she said while you are a wolf and she while she is a hawk?” Arya asks.

“We did find our ways after a while. For a time, we carved signs into the trees,” Jaime explains, nodding his head. “Right over there. We have travelled this part of the lands before.”

Arya glances at the tree Jaime gestures to, only now growing conscious that there are faint traces of something carved into the wood with Oathkeeper in all likability, judging by the edges. The young girl gets up and traces the highs and lows on the bark with her fingertips.

“What language is that?” she asks. “I have never seen those before.”

“Because you can’t. We made them up on our own. Secret symbols only we can decipher. I am rather bad at writing and reading, so that suited me just fine. But we had to take off again and again once people started chasing us, so we had to stop leaving traces. And letters proved dangerous as we had to leave our camp unattended some many times, and you can never know who may sneak about the camp and let the Queen know of a letter to Brienne by Jaime, especially in times such as these, where everyone tries to find dirt on the other if only to distract from one’s own wrongdoings. And at some point… words just failed to capture what was happening to us. Words can’t really describe it. All was said in a way,” Jaime tells her.

Their destiny is now carved into those trees. It was amongst those trees that he and Brienne made their choice to fight one last time, even if that means their death in all likability. It was amongst those trees that they decided to fight their destiny one last time, if only for the world so full of injustice to see justice ring once as those who harmed them so get what they deserve for their actions, even if that means both their damnation, in this life and the next.

“For that there seem to be some many things unsaid between you two,” Arya huffs as she sits back down. “She didn’t even know the sword’s name was Oathkeeper.”

“As I said, I didn't find it a good idea to put something like that down in a letter. I was careless twice, and that brought us here as well, so I am not taking that chance ever again,” Jaime tells her.

He was careless the night before the day that started with their imprisonment and ended their little bit of bliss in a harsh world. And he was careless when he let himself be tricked into being cursed by that wicked maester without chains.

Jaime looks back at the bird. She tilts her head at him, but then decides to take flight at once, the former Lord Commander following her motion to look back at the trees, their secret symbols that sealed their destiny.

Even though he never found a symbol that would express Oathkeeper.

“You know, she thinks that it’s her fault,” Arya comments, following his movements with her dark eyes.

“Then tell her that it is not the next time you see her. The stubborn thing she is, it shouldn’t even surprise me that she sees her being targeted as a fault on her behalf. It was me who underestimated the gravity of the situation. I thought that I kept Brienne far enough away from my life not to cause the Queen greater irritation, because I knew she didn’t like the thought of her Lord Commander not having only her on his mind at all times. It was my carelessness that one night that set it all into motion. That is how we both earned this, or rather, how I earned this – and Brienne just got dragged into my own, dark affairs. But I shall rather die than leave her lingering in this curse. This way or another, it's going to end soon. I promised her,” he says, running his palm over one of the trees.

He carved the question into this very tree. If she wanted it to carry on. She crossed the question out to give her answer, and carved underneath a crown and a bird, crossed out the same way, angry slashes with the tip of a sword the name of which he could not express. They long since decided on that their last act on this planet will be to get justice for what was done to them, and lift the curse by escaping out of the grasp of all living creatures, they will escape by making their own choice rather than just enduring that which others made on their behalf, be it the High Sparrow, the Queen, or destiny itself. It was a sad promise that took Jaime a lot to stomach – since he can’t bear the thought, but she demanded. She made him promise.

And so he did.

And so he promised.

And so he is to keep his vow.

“This is my oath to keep. My mission,” he says, stroking his hand over Oathkeeper.

Arya looks at him sadly, because she knows that Jaime bears no faith to win this fight to reverse the curse, which is why he refused Tyrion so promptly back at the septry. From what it sounds like, the hope was drained out of him with every day passing when he woke up in the morning without a chance to see the familiar face of the woman he came to care about so much.

And for the young girl, it is quite shocking to see a man the likes of Jaime Lannister and a woman the likes of Lady Brienne having been drained of all hope, all prospect of a future, leaving them with no more than carvings in a tree which turned into welts and scars for the tree to bear over time, the sole testament that they were there, that they are alive, and together, against the odds of the curse meant to cast them eternally apart.

“Our mission, you mean to say,” the young brunette then argues, which has Jaime turn towards her with a frown. “It’s our mission now, because I am your way into King’s Landing, don’t forget that.”

Jaime shakes his head. “I still can’t believe I actually let you come with.”

“Make no mistake, Ser, you could try all you want, but I make up my own mind.”

“And that is a luxury you should hold on to,” Jaime sighs, looking back at the trees. “Before you know it, you have no choice anymore.”

“Which is why I am certain that I am making the right choice this time. Because it’s for a good cause, the right cause,” Arya tells him. Jaime flashes a small smile at her, but then lets his eyes travel up to the sky above where Brienne observes them with her watchful eyes.

If only he could be a bird for one day.

If only she could be a wolf for one night.

If only they could be man and woman again for just a moment.

But that his no longer their choice to make.

* * *

 In a septry off the usual tracks and with a missing door, Tyrion dragged himself back to the altar of the Seven, one shaky hand clutching the wineskin he carries about his waist for emergencies, a clay cup he found unbroken in his other hand.

“I thought you had sent him back to me so that I would find forgiveness,” he says, looking at the statues one by one.

“Gods know I have done many wrongs throughout my life. Gods know I likely will, but just why did you make my brother’s heart so hard towards me that he can’t bring himself to listen to me? Why did you do this, hm?”

He lost everything that he cared about, in fact more than he cared about, as Jaime and Brienne lost for his mistake as well, making the loss impossibly greater.

Tyrion meant to do things right. Even when drunk on the wine and feeling of love of a sister who actually had the serpents wrapped around her neck at all times, though he remained blind to that circumstance until news reached him that Jaime and Brienne had been taken into custody.

He meant to make things right, tried to improve things, tried to make things better. And he thought that he had found a way to make it happen, to make everyone happy, himself included.

And so, high on the feeling, high on the wine, he had made a choice, which the dwarf came to regret so deeply that no amount of wine, no amount of whores coming to his septry when he brings them back with him from his errand runs in the next town, can ease that pain, make that invisible scar fade.

Tyrion looks back at the wineskin, removing the cork with a plopping sound, but then his eyes drift back to the Seven.

“Just what is it that you want of me? What is it that I am supposed to do so that my own brother listens to me, trusts me again? What am I, a little, useless, lying dwarf supposed to do to change earth’s course? Don’t you think you demand too much of a halfman the likes of me?”

Because Tyrion has studied enough scrolls and books to know that one thing for certain – there are no great histories about dwarves. There are no pleasant tales told about them. They are mostly mentioned as clowns and actors meant to please the court with their abnormality, their monstrosity, their grotesqueness.

Dwarves may, perchance, write history by putting down other people’s records in the books if they know how to use quill and ink, but dwarves don’t write history through their actions, they are not remembered as heroes.

Dwarves can’t change the world’s course, their arms too short, their legs too weak.

Dwarves can, in fact, not even convince their own sisters of the goodness of a preferable deal to all sides.

Dwarves seemingly can’t help but become weak to those things they crave, the wine, the attention, the love and affection of the woman they wanted it from more than words can say, as so much time passed between them with hatred and resentment.

Dwarves can’t stand up for their wrongs and confess straight away, instead hiding secrets of secrets at the bottom of their cups of wine.

Dwarves can’t protect their family.

Dwarves can’t bring their stubborn brothers to reason, can’t bring them to listen.

Dwarves can’t be trusted.

Or aren’t trusted by those whose trust they crave the most.

Dwarves can’t help but disappoint.

“So why have you chosen me for this? Why do you give me the knowledge but not the means to carry it out?” Tyrion asks, tears standing in his eyes as he pours the red liquid promising momentary relief into the clay cup.

“Why didn’t you choose any other person but me? Couldn’t you have taken me and leave my brother and Brienne alone instead? Why do you keep hurting us so much, even though you are supposed to be so generous, so good? Hm? Where is your forgiveness, your protection? Where are you, Father, Mother, Maiden, Warrior, Smith, Crone, and Stranger? Where are you when three of your children are in dire need of your help?”

Tyrion lifts the cup to his mouth and means to take a swig, but he can’t bring himself to tilt the cup far enough to dabble his lips with the one liquid promising numbness, a lack of pain.

He takes the cup back down, tears staining his eyes as his eyes remain fixed on the statues over which the shadows are dancing as the sun rises, making them come to life for a moment or two when the sun casts the shadow elsewhere on their tiny faces.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asks. “What am I supposed to do when my brother just came to me after all this time and I spent so many nights preparing for just this moment, only to fail again? He is gone now and he won’t return. He will ride to his death and to Brienne’s, too. He will die and he won’t return to me so that I can reason with him. So what am I supposed to do? What do you want me to do? What am I supposed to do to save my foolish, stubborn, wonderful, kind brother?”

“How am I supposed to change all our destiny if I am stuck here?” he questions. “How do I change the world’s course from this abandoned septry?”

What does a little dwarf do who can’t seem to do much of anything but talk clever and read books?

Tyrion lifts the cup back to his lips, but again, his mouth won’t open to let the red liquid inside his body, so he puts it down again.

“I am no septon, not inside my heart. I have never been. I have no faith in the Faith. And yet I am praying to you, and yet I am asking for your guidance. I am Tyrion Lannister, I am a rich lordling who let others do the hard work for him, who let his big brother fight the struggles for him. I am a dwarf who likes to drink and whore. I wouldn’t know what to make of the codices of chivalry and honor that Brienne and Jaime give so much on. I cheat and betray and lie if I have to. I am a man of sin, of many sins, and yet… you give me the knowledge to save my brother. And yet, you don’t let me save him – and the woman he cares about more than I can say with all the words I have learned over time.”

“Why did you choose me?”

He looks at the statues, then back at the cup in his hands.

_Who am I to choose?_

_What am I to choose?_

Tyrion glances back at the statues again as their small faces keep shifting in the light of day.

_What is my choice?_

And that has Tyrion think back to the many times he was chosen by his brother, by Brienne. When Jaime rode all the way back to Casterly Rock after he had taken part in a tourney and had gotten news that his little brother had fallen ill. When Jaime told Cersei to keep him alone when she was yet again up to tormenting him about the very fact that he existed. When his older brother pulled him close in the eyes of everyone as he said his goodbyes to go to King’s Landing to serve King Aerys, telling him that he loved him and that Tyrion should never dare to forget that. When Brienne, carrying a heavy basket to one of the taverns she worked at by the time, escorted him back to the sept after he had sneaked off down Eel Alley to look too deeply into the cups handed out in the inns – never saying anything, only ever making sure that he arrived safely. When she knocked a man into the dust who called him a monster out in the streets. When the two of them had him come along to a trip into the woods to eat and drink and fight while he read a book of his fancy, enjoying the soft breeze and rushing of the small river. When Brienne entrusted something of true importance into his care, still believing in his goodness when he had long since betrayed that precious trust. When Jaime entrusted it to him to negotiate, be his voice outside the walls of the tower, yet again, not aware of his betrayal at that point of time. When he walked between the two down the streets of King’s Landing and they all hummed the old songs after they sneaked away to a melee, smiling.

There are so many times when he was chosen.

“And now it’s time that I choose, too,” Tyrion says, getting up, slowly walking over the broken clay cups until he reaches the altar and puts the one unbroken cup in the middle, between the Warrior and the Maiden.

“And I have chosen, it seems. So thank you.”

With that, Tyrion turns around and starts to walk towards his chamber.

Because it appears he just volunteered to a journey with uncertain outcomes.

But, at last, it will be his choice and his choice alone.  


	7. Rain, Secrets, and Dogs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the way back to King's Landing, the three stop by an inn to spend the night.
> 
> Arya tries to use her time to learn some tricks and maybe convince either one of the stubborn knights of Tyrion's plan, though she is in for some bad surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thanks for sticking around, for kudoing and commenting. You are such a wonderful readership. ♥
> 
> So, for this chapter... I am including incidents that happened in the movie (well duh ;) ), which means that maybe people come and go faster than they would in a story that can dedicate a great deal of time to them all. I hope that it suffices to build up the drama nevertheless. At the same time, I take the liberty to change some things that I find ring truer for Brienne and Arya to do instead fo dancing in the barn (as is the case for Philippe and Isabeau).
> 
> Anyway, I hope that you are going to like the chapter.
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

And so, Arya finds herself on the way back to the city she actually tried quite desperately to escape from not long ago. However, she finds herself curiously at peace with that. Certainly, she is worried about the success and the danger of potentially ending up in the black cells again, but Arya, for the first time in a long time, feels like she is walking the right path instead of sneaking down the wrong alleyways to keep off the usual tracks.

What the brunette is less certain about is how to bring the stubborn man riding the horse she sits on alongside him to reason. While she could get him to take her along to King’s Landing, Arya is less than sure about what to do to change Jaime’s mind about going into the Great Sept of Baelor to get revenge on the High Sparrow and the Queen. Even though the girl can very well understand the resentment he must feel for both, she doesn’t know how to make him hold on to life instead of just revenge.

Because in her back sits a broken man, sided with a broken woman currently flying with a bird’s wings above their heads to keep watch over them.

And Arya is not yet sure whether there is a way to fix either one.

“Will we be staying in the woods again?” she asks as Honor keeps his usual slow pace shaking her back and forth not too harshly.

“It’s looking like rain tonight,” Jaime answers, looking up to the already darkening sky. “I know an inn we can go to.”

“You think it’s safe to us to go to an inn?” Arya questions with a grimace.

“Brienne has spent nights there before, no bother. Most people wouldn’t know what Brienne of Tarth looks like even if they knew her name. Which means that she can get the stable without anyone knowing of our involvement in it. As you point out, it might be too close a call to have you in the inn. People may be looking for you,” Jaime answers.

“Well, I am taking a stable over forest ground any other day,” Arya comments.

Jaime chuckles softly at that. “That’s what I thought.”

“Do I take from that you are trying to be nice to me?” the girl questions with a bit of a tease.

“Well, I thought it may be right to reward you for not running off again – and not getting us almost killed for once,” Jaime snorts.

They keep travelling until they come across a small town. Jaime brings Honor to a halt further down the steep leading up to the tiny village, dismounting swiftly.

“Alright, this is where I will have to say my goodbyes for the night. I wouldn’t want the wolf to wander anywhere near here,” Jaime says to Arya as he puts the reins in her hands. “Be sure to wait until Brienne is in her other shape again before you go.”

“I got that the first time around,” the young girl huffs, rolling her eyes.

“It can never harm to remind you. You rarely take my advice.”

“Likewise.”

“Once it’s time, just put the saddlebag here someplace where she can change,” Jaime goes on to say, gesturing at the saddlebag containing one half of their little life now. Though the mere thought has him think back to what he would want to offer Brienne instead of a tiny life out of a saddlebag. Jaime would rather give Brienne the security of staying in one place, of having a home, all those things he knows she was bereft of doubly, the first time after her father came to pass, the second time when Cersei and the High Sparrow played their cruel game with them. Yet, he knows he won’t have a chance for that in their current condition, always forced to run, never allowed to stay.

And that even though Brienne told him some many times that all she wanted was a place to stay and call hers, after Evenfall Hall faded from her memory once she came to the capitol to labor in an inn, where the innkeep let her sleep in exchange for work unfitting a woman of her name or rank.

Not that Brienne ever complained about that, however. One of the things that always fascinated Jaime about the blonde, mannish woman was the dignity with which she carried out the smallest of tasks, even carrying shit from the stables over to the next best pit to dump it in, or serving drunkards in the inn who only ever laughed at her being forced into skirts that did not fit her.

Nevertheless, there was longing in her big blue eyes when she spoke to him about her home, about her father, a wish for more than what she had, for which Brienne eagerly saved up money she was able to acquire at the tourneys, to get her own house preferably on the outside of the city “with a nice view” and if not, at the very least “anything but Flea Bottom.” At some point Jaime could curse himself for not following through with buying her some house for her outside the city gates. He even made the suggestion to her, but Brienne of course declined, stating that she wouldn’t want such gifts from Jaime – and that she would rather earn her livelihood by herself instead.

“And then, one of these days, I will invite you into my new home,” was what Brienne said him with one of her rare smiles before she got up and challenged him to another round of fencing.

“I will be waiting for the invitation, then,” was all he answered before he joined their dance again, foolish in the belief that they would have the time, which they did not, in the end.

Jaime came to regret so many things ever since the curse that he can’t even begin to count them, because there is no way to know whether a house outside the city may have prevented anything or may have driven Cersei even more. In the end, Jaime only ever comes to regret that Brienne’s livelihood remains reduced to far less than what she is worth.

However, if anything came of it as of late, then it is in fact the presence of the stubborn little girl that annoys Jaime more often than not. Her presence makes preparations for the night far easier, even more so now that Arya knows of their condition and he no longer has to disguise the reasons for his absence as something else. It’s relieving for once not having to lie, not having to pretend, just like it is a relief to know that there is someone to be around Brienne while he is bound to howl to the moon in the distance.

Because what makes her life even smaller than it used to be must be the loneliness Brienne must feel. Jaime has at least the luxury of having the days, where he can regularly talk to people, visit market places, do some hunting here, some guarding jobs there. Brienne, however, cast into her human shape only ever in the moonlight? She rarely gets to see other people, barely gets to use her voice to speak, because they have to be cautious. Going to inns like this one is a rare occurrence already, being around people Brienne knows and who know her, if not by name, if not for her past, is something Cersei and the High Sparrow took from her as well – and Jaime loathes them even more for that.

Looking at their current situation, at the fact that their small life seems to inevitably come to a close rather sooner than later, though, Jaime reckons it can’t harm to give Brienne a bit of familiarity, a bit of comfort, a bit of home, if only in the shape of a warm meal at an inn she has been to before and where the people like her well enough.

He heard the innkeep say it the next morning when he went to break fast there.

Thus, perchance, that is the Gods’ way of giving them a bit of fortune before the inevitable doom that awaits them in the capitol.

_But I promised._

“Then… see about it that you behave yourself. Brienne has been through enough, so it can’t harm to let her have one evening in peace,” Jaime goes on to say. “Tell her I have some spare coin she can use to buy good food and drink. After all, we should use it up before it goes to waste.”

“About that…,” Arya wants to say, but Jaime abruptly turns to leave, well aware what the young girl would mean to say otherwise.

“Farewell,” he says forcefully.

“Make sure to wear clothes when I see you in the morning again!” Arya calls after him.

“Will do!” the older man calls out, waving over his shoulder. With that, Jaime starts to jog further down the hill until the forest swallows him.

“Stubborn coot,” Arya mutters as she pats Honor’s neck. Her gaze wanders off to the dark sky, which is short before revealing the moon still hiding in its shadows. It’s not going to take soon until Lady Brienne is bound to reappear. Thus, the girl gives the horse the spurs.

“C’mon, we should find someplace where Lady Hawk has her peace to change,” she tells the steed, which readily trots ahead. “Jaime seems to be right about that one thing for once after all. And that seems rare enough.”

Unknown to the young girl, a cloaked man steps in front of his horse, dutifully sharpening one of his knives, a dark smile cracking across his pale face. His eyes shoot up as a hawk shrieks above, following in direction of where the young girl rode with the white horse.

“ _Lady Hawk_ , hm? What a great beast of a woman that must be, I can’t even wait.”

He whistles some jovial tune as he pockets his knife before opening his saddle bag, taking out metal pieces with sharp edges and teeth, ready to bite whatever may dare to come too close.

“She said as unharmed as I can,” he comments to himself, high in spirit. “That doesn’t mean completely unharmed, though, right? And it’s only just a paw – if he struggles too hard. Because I tend to think I already found a way to get to what the Queen desires most.”

The hooded man lets his gaze wander in direction of where the girl rode off into the woods as he walks to the back of his carriage, tapping his gloved hand over the closed cart, in which dogs are barking and snarling and thrashing against the inside, wanting to get out.

“Sometimes you have to lure one animal into a trap to capture the one you actually want. It’s always a question of the right bait… and the right trap. And I happen to have both,” the hunter muses as he bends down in front of the small door of the carriage, a dog’s open mouth with sharp teeth instantly gnarling at the iron bars.

“Easy there, easy there. You will get something to eat little soon,” he laughs. His pale eyes light up with dark delight as he looks at the trap in his hands, feeling the rush of blood in his ears.

“It’s time for a hunt at last, with no trace of Snow anymore.”

Because that is a pelt he is very glad to give up in favor of the one he was granted by Queen’s decree.

* * *

 

Arya sits on the ground, playing around with a long blade of grass, all the while pondering what way to take to get through to either of those stubborn people she means to convince of what may well be the one chance for them, if Tyrion’s words can be trusted. She reckons that Jaime is even harder to convince than Lady Brienne, because she seems rather kind-hearted after all, so perchance she should try her luck with the woman instead.

_And anyway, to me, it seems that he does however Lady Brienne pleases, just that the coot remains blind to the circumstance._

The young girl is pulled out of her thoughts when she hears footsteps approaching. She turns her head as Brienne appears from behind one of the old oaken trees, still fixing her quilted tunic as she goes.

“Ah, there you are!” Arya calls out, flashing a smile at the older woman. “How is the shoulder?”

“Better already, thank you,” Brienne answers, rolling it slightly. “Though I am more concerned with the fact that this is not the septry, or rather, that you are not at the septry whereas we are on the way back to King’s Landing.”

“Jaime agreed to take me along,” the young girl answers.

Brienne looks at her. “You _do_ remember what you promised me, yes?”

“I do, my lady, but it’s the truth I am speaking. I heard of his plan to go to the Great Sept of Baelor – and I can get him there. I escaped through the sewer systems when I got out of the black cells. There is a way to get him inside so that he can confront the High Sparrow and the Queen,” Arya explains hurriedly.

Brienne turns her head to the side, her eyes seemingly finding the wolf in the distance even when she can’t see him. “What are you thinking, you idiot?”

“He wants to keep his oath,” the brunette girl argues.

“But not at the risk of your safety,” the older woman insists.

“Well, let’s not make any mistake, Lady Brienne, I was not really safe at the septry either. I feel much safer with you two,” Arya replies.

“But once the deed is done…,” Brienne means to say, but the young girl is quick to cut her off before she can finish, “I will keep my promise and return North.”

“I suppose I can’t change this anymore anyways,” the tall blonde sighs. Even if she were to ride all the way back to the septry, Brienne is fairly sure that by the end of the day, Jaime would have the girl chasing her all over again.

“Afraid not,” Arya answers with a smirk. “We will have to look after each other a while longer. But anyway, Jaime said that you know the innkeep here. He suggested that we should try to get the stables for ourselves to spend the night. I am also supposed to let you know that there is spare coin to use for food and drink.”

“Gods know when he finds the time for odd jobs to carry out,” Brienne huffs.

There was a time when Jaime had no idea what it was like to have to labor for his expenses. He was a high Lord’s son, then a proud member of the Kingsguard. Brienne made fun of him some many times as they had grown closer about how he would likely starve himself to death if he were bereft of title and riches, believing it a good-natured tease back in the day, though it only ever leaves a bitter taste in her mouth now that Brienne recalls those moments.

Because Jaime has grown to be the provider for them both ever since they were cursed. Brienne wouldn’t find labor in the midst of the night, which leaves it up to Jaime to see about their livelihood. Some many days, she would love to hear him lament about the corns the labor gives him or show her the blisters as testament of his efforts. In fact, Brienne would labor every night and every day, would fly through a hoop as a hawk, if only to see him again, to hear his voice in her human ears.

_But that is not going to happen ever again._

“Well, then I suppose we should get going before someone else takes up the stables in our stead,” Brienne concludes as she walks up to Honor to open the saddlebag which she knows Jaime uses to hide the coins in.

They make back towards the town, which is unoccupied at that hour, which is why Arya and Honor can well stay by the back of the house already, whereas Brienne handles the innkeep, a business quickly handled as the old man is rather benevolent after Brienne once threw out some burglars for him who were out for trouble.

While Brienne does not pride herself being a woman who is popular with other people, she seemingly found her way into the man’s heart against the odds of her queer nature and looks, as he readily gives her food and drink for little coin, only reluctantly accepting what she means to pay him for his services.

“Nonsense. If not for ye, I wouldn’t have no inn no more,” is all he keeps saying as he gives her more than the two can eat in a single night. Brienne thus flashes a shy smile as she thanks him another time before leading young Arya into the stable.

“That is definitely more comfortable than the one in the woods,” the young girl comments as they make their way inside, taking in the smell of fresh hay and oil in the lamps hung up safely away from the wood and straw.

“I always liked this place. The people are nice around here,” Brienne comments as she unpacks the bags to relieve Honor of their weight. “Most people are weary of strangers, even more so who look… somewhat strange.”

“To me it’s always a small miracle that anyone is willing to help anyone. The Crown and the Faith make people crazy about each other,” Arya grumbles. She rarely got any kindness to witness ever since she was forced out of Syrio’s home, out into the streets., and against the odds of the Faith hosting soup kitchens, Arya always kept away from those once she realized how that is one of their many sneaky ways to have the people come listen to their words.

If you become dependent on them, they have you, they catch you, the trap snaps shut and it’s far too late for you to escape anymore.

“They want us to feel like sinners so that they can absolve us of them,” Brienne comments. “Even though there was no sin committed most of the time.”

“Quite a clever tactic,” Arya comments. “Cruel but clever.”

“And effective,” Brienne adds feebly, brushing her fingers over the saddlebag containing Jaime’s things.

“Well, it’s worse in the capitol than it is around here. There are fewer Sparrows travelling around here to make people anxious about all the crimes they did not commit,” Arya answers, balancing the wooden bowl Brienne handed to her as they went inside on her thighs. She takes a spoonful. “Oh, this is _good_.”

Because truth be told, Arya can’t remember the last time she enjoyed an actually cooked meal. Jaime roasted rabbit for her, and that was good enough, but to have carrots and potatoes with tender meat in a wonderfully salty broth has Arya think back to the dishes she ate and never paid mind to in the North, taking them, like so many things, for granted.

“You should have some of the bread, it’s one of the best I have ever had,” Brienne comments as she feeds Honor some carrots, all the while petting him on the side. “The innkeep’s wife makes them fresh every day.”

“Then sit with me and eat, it’s getting cold,” Arya urges the older woman, who rewards her with a crooked kind of grin before sitting down on the hay as well, taking the bowl Arya holds out to her along with a piece of the bread.

“I bet it must be good to have actual food for a change,” the young girl snickers.

“The hawk likes mice a lot, but Gods know Jaime likely has more to suffer because wolves are always hungry. I bet he has to wash up every morning just to rid himself of the blood,” Brienne comments as she takes a spoonful of the broth, feeling heat pour down her throat and rise to her cheeks as she inevitably has to think back to the one time they went out for a hunt and Jaime ended up getting blood all over himself when they skinned the animal – and he washed up by the nearby stream, whereas Brienne was busy looking away as he kept making teasing comments at her expenses.

She would like to smack herself for that. After all, such thoughts are what got her into trouble before, and Brienne knows that this was never meant to be, won’t ever be, and is bound to be over long before it ever began.

The brunette girl looks at her. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You mean other than that question?” Brienne huffs drily.

“Yes,” Arya chuckles softly.

“You can ask, but I do not promise an answer,” the older woman replies cautiously.

“What is it that you miss most about being human, wholly?” the brunette asks.

Brienne blinks at that, the spoon plopping into the soup as she taps her index finger against her chin thoughtfully.

“What I miss most about not being cursed, you ask?” Brienne frowns, but then the answer comes right to her. “Sword fighting with Jaime. He was the only one who's ever been a match to me. Though I was still beating him.”

Arya smiles at that. “Of course.”

“No, but… those were some of the best moments in my life, to tell the truth. I felt free again, because I could fight without having to hide behind visor and armor. I could fight him… as me,” Brienne goes on to say quietly.

She loved taking part in the melees without a doubt, but training with Jaime, dancing with the swords, that had a special place inside her heart and made it beat faster whenever they met, whenever she caught sight of him, in fact. Because there was joy in the fight, not just her wish to prove something only to herself. Fighting with Jaime meant laughing with him, it meant being herself without having to hide away, without having to yield, ever.

_And even that they managed to take away. Even that one shred of happiness._

“You ought to teach me some of your tricks once you are better,” Arya goes on to say. “The way you took on the men of the Queensguard was marvelous.”

“You are being too kind, for that I fought with no more than a kitchen knife,” Brienne snorts, shaking her head. It was more luck than anything else that they came out of that situation alive, she is well aware.

“Which makes it ever the more impressive,” Arya insists.

“Well, if you truly want to train, you should see about exercising your weak hand,” Brienne says, biting off some of the bread.

“How is that?” Arya asks, blinking at her.

“Because you can get injured in a fight. Your hand can suffer damage while falling down,” Brienne explains, her thoughts dancing all the while about the many times she changed bandages on the wolf’s paw, no matter how much he snarled and growled at her. “I started training my left once I saw that Jaime was injured, after we found each other again. While I walked out of this mostly unscathed, I thought it only right that I had to train my weak side as well.”

If the sword she had to use against the men of the Queensguard had not been so heavy to carry, Brienne would have used her left most of the time, but with her shoulder still that painful, she reckoned it was best to use both her hands for that matter.

“I can show you, if you liked,” Brienne offers cautiously, though to her surprise, the young girl’s eyes almost spark up at that. “Really?”

“Certainly, just take your sword and… why aren’t you having it?” She frowns, having reckoned that Jaime would not mean to take it away from Arya again. After all, that plan seems over even for him now.

Arya shrugs at her. “I had a deal with Jaime that he gets to keep it until I keep my promise to return North.”

Brienne flashes a small smile at that. It does good to hear honest promises, however small, because they bear on more meaning than most would ever know.

“Well, that is good to hear, but I suppose we might use it for the occasion,” Brienne tells her before getting up to gather Oathkeeper and Needle, handing the girl her precious, elegant sword fitting her body type rather well.

_Whoever made that a gift to her must have had a good sense of what her fighting style would in all likability turn out to be._

The blonde woman sits back down on the hay.

“First thing you should do is get a feeling for having that weight in your hand,” Brienne tells her, moving Oathkeeper very swiftly with her left, a movement she could likely do while still lying fast asleep.

“And then I just have to do things the other way around,” Arya chimes. Syrio had her train with her right on some occasions after she had blisters all over the left palm, which she wore like a badge of honor back in the day. She asked him many times to show her how he could fight with either hand, but he said that she had to fulfill other training first before they could move up to that task.

“You are taking one step before the other,” Brienne argues, shaking her head.

“I am a quick learner, as I said,” Arya insists.

“You certainly are, but training takes discipline and time foremost,” Brienne tells her with a small smirk. “You should begin by working on your grip.”

“But if I don’t know how to move it properly, I don’t see much sense in…,” Arya means to argue, but it takes Brienne no more than one punctuated move of the Valyrian steel blade to knock the sword out of Arya’s hand, right into the hay.

“The sense lies in not losing your sword. Your other hand is weaker than the one you normally use,” Brienne tells her, nodding at the sword lying on the hay. “And the one thing you cannot afford is losing your sword. No one is supposed to take your sword away from you, so long you can help it.”

Because once you lose your sword, you are exposed. Oh, how much Brienne would have wished for a blade in hand to defend herself against the false accusations, against the Queen and the High Sparrow, but there was no blade sharp enough to offer her so much as a chance to prove herself in a trial by combat.

_The Queen’s Justice, after all._

Arya picks Needle back up and keeps her fingers tight around the grip this time.

“I tended to clench and unclench my fingers around the grip whenever I found the time, to get used to the weight and make my fingers hold on tight even when I lost grip of it momentarily,” Brienne recounts.

The one thing on her mind was to somehow do things Jaime must have gone through out of necessity. She only found it right to, in a way, to suffer alongside him, to undergo the same experiences.

There is so little to connect them in the present day, so Brienne reckoned it could not harm to try to walk his steps, make his movements, to crack open the present for a fraction of time, to let the past seep in and remind her of how it felt like crossing blades with him, dancing with him without having to put on a dress not fitting her and being ridiculed as “Brienne the Beauty” by those who only ever asked for a dance out of mockery.

Sword dance with Jaime meant tease, perhaps, but no such mockery. It was one of the few true things she had in life – and truly, Brienne misses that truth so dearly that her heart can barely take its absence.

The two continue some more with the swords, Arya proving a receptive pupil as she copies the older woman’s movements, listening to every word she speaks and has her repeat the same motions over and over.

Arya, for her part, finds herself taken back in time during those moments, to training sessions with Syrio, in the Red Keep as well as the back of his little house, and the joy it gave her whenever she mastered a new trick. And if the young girl were honest with herself, she would have to admit that there is a particular thrill to train with a woman the likes of Lady Brienne, something that the tall woman has even over Syrio, because when Arya looks at that woman and copies her movements, she sees someone she would fancy being more like in the future. Arya almost childishly copied every of Syrio’s movements back in the day, parroted every word he spoke to Sansa and her father without relent, to be more like him, to move like him, talk like him, be like him, but with Lady Brienne it is different. Because she doesn’t just show her how she personally fights, but the tall woman takes her time to study Arya’s movements and tell her what to do with the blade accordingly.

Because Lady Brienne doesn’t take her for no one, doesn’t take her for a girl, she takes her for someone the little thief once called Arry almost forgot about – she takes her for Arya Stark.

“If we had met earlier, I would have liked to learn some more about your water dance. While it is certainly not my style, some could have been gained from it to perchance incorporate,” Brienne comments once they put the blades aside.

“Well, maybe there is time for that,” the young girl argues, but Brienne only ever shakes her head at her in reply. “I am afraid not. You likely know what Jaime and I are up to in the capitol.”

“Yes, I have heard, but there is actually something Jaime could not share with you just yet because… well, of your condition,” Arya tells her.

Brienne cocks an eyebrow at her. “And what would that be?”

“That Tyrion found a solution. There is a way to break the curse, he said, before Jaime took off,” the young girl explains, hoping sincerely that the woman will listen to her. If she can bring Brienne to it, Jaime will follow, Arya is certain.

“Did he? Curiously, he did not mention that to me,” Brienne huffs, shaking her head. Though perhaps she shouldn’t even be surprised. There are some many things that Tyrion did that he did not tell her – or only ever told Brienne when it was far too late.

_And that even though I told him, told him over and over: Just be honest with me. Come to me and tell me when something is wrong, but don’t hide it, please._

She asked Tyrion to hide that one thing for her, and that was the one he could not help but expose to the light of day, or rather the lights of the candles flickering at the Red Keep. And to make matters worse, he made that a secret again, locked it away until she was locked up in a cellar in the black cells, chained up like an animal.

“A great, lumbering beast,” as the Queen said with a snarl and a huff before she went on her ways back to the Iron Throne again.

“I reckoned that Tyrion wanted to convince Jaime foremost, because he is as stubborn as a mule,” Arya comment, rolling her frail shoulders.

“He might just as well have tried to convince a mule – his chances would have vastly improved,” the older woman snorts.

“But the point is that there is a way out for you two. It’s all about the sun and the moon, as far as I heard. There will be a night without a day and a day without a night soon. And if Tyrion is right, then that means you could confront the High Sparrow and the Queen, together, in your human shape, and thus break the curse,” Arya says, hoping for hope to flicker up in the big blue eyes of her female companion, but sadly, no such thing.

Instead, Brienne only ever bows her head, moving it from left to right.

“But all of that rests on the idea that he is right. And against the odds of his great mind, Tyrion was wrong about some many things,” Brienne argues.

Just like she was wrong about some many things, ever having dared to entrust him with her secrets, and the treasure chest she gave him to hide away, to make it more than words spoken over dreamwine. Brienne thought she had managed to make Tyrion keep his oath by involving him, letting him be a part of it, by telling him all that he needed to know. Yet, in the end, that only gave him any chance to break that fragile trust Brienne dared to put in a man she had grown fond of to the point that she readily would have fought back anyone who dared hurt him.

“But what if he is right about _just_ that? Wouldn’t you rather want to live than die in the attempt of getting revenge?” Arya insists, all the while wondering where that thought suddenly comes from, when she found herself consumed for a long time by just that thought as she kept tracing Meryn Trant’s steps to get revenge for Syrio.

“I would rather go back in time and undo all of my past mistakes, but rarely are we granted the fortune of having our wishes fulfilled,” Brienne answers forcefully. “I wish I could go back in time to right my wrongs. I wish I had never taken part in the melee, but there is no way to undo that which was done.”

Brienne saw it, many times, trying to break the curse, trying to find Jaime, trying to get to him, stay with him, only for her mind to fade into nothingness at the first beams of sunlight, so that she took flight, high into the air, out of his reach.

“But then you and Ser Jaime never would have met,” Arya argues, her lips curling into a frown.

“Precisely. If he had not crossed paths with me, Jaime would still keep vigil in the Red Keep, his hand intact, his honor unbesmirched, a proud and honorable man of the Queensguard who would have done well to keep her under control, for all I can judge. If he and I had never met, Jaime would be a man, and not a man by day and a wolf at night,” Brienne says, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. “And that even though it’s so very dangerous for him, especially while he is a wolf. Wolves are far more endangered than birds. I can at least fly away to escape, but him? He can step into a trap, can be hunted down, for pelt or meat alike. And I can’t protect him most of the time. The wolf keeps his distance. He rather walks off on his own, the stubborn idiot. As if I needed his protection.”

It’s a cruel destiny indeed, but no matter what Tyrion may want to believe, Brienne can’t see any hope beyond the one Jaime and she carved into the trees, the one they dared to choose for themselves, however painful, however final.

“But you wouldn’t be in that danger anymore if the curse was undone,” Arya argues.

Brienne turns to her. “What would that change from our plan, you tell me?”

“You would no longer be cursed,” the young girl answers, making a face.

_Isn’t that obvious?_

“Then let’s say… this work. Let’s say Jaime and I turn into humans again, at the same time. We step before the Queen and the High Sparrow, as this seemingly is meant to undo the curse. Now, answer me this: What would the Queen have ordered at the very next second she laid eyes on us?” Brienne goes on, and that is when it hits Arya.

“The black cells… execution… or worse,” she mutters, slouching her shoulders, defeat creeping up from the hay all the way to her neck.

“Even if there is a way to undo the curse for only just a day… if we want the people to hear it, if we want Cersei and the High Sparrow to finally pay the price for their wrongdoings, there is simply no way for us to live beyond that day, be it one without a day or without a night,” Brienne tells her solemnly.

“But…,” Arya whispers helplessly, searching for something to tell the other woman to make her see hope, to see light in all of that desolation.

“Jaime and I know what we are up against. We know that this is no fight that we are meant to walk away from as victors. Whether there is a way to break the curse or not actually makes no difference, as strange as it may seem. The moment we step before the Queen and the High Sparrow, the moment we expose ourselves, we are dead. The one hope that we bear is to expose them, to expose their lies, _their_ witchcraft, so that others will know, so that the people can no longer close their eyes to the truth that those two mean nothing but harm, that the Two Pillars stand on shaky ground, and that it is their time to rise against them and tear them down,” Brienne says, her voice slightly shaking, nevertheless not lacking any kind of impact.

“So what? You hope to start a revolution?” Arya questions, surprised that the two seemingly have more in mind than simply revenge.

“Far from it. For that, I deem myself too unimportant. Jaime, perhaps, but me? No, no. No one would go to war against the Two Pillars for the likes of me. However, I saw the people as the climate changed in the capitol. I saw them grow anxious, I saw them grow scared, of one another, of sin, of Faith itself, or whatever it is that the High Sparrow made out as bad with his wrong sermons. Those people didn’t know what was happening until it was too late. Because they don’t know, because truth happens behind closed doors, hidden away in the black cells. They don’t know just how far this Queen goes to keep in power. And they deserve that truth. We deserve that truth being heard, spoken, seen. We deserve to… to be remembered as we were, as who we truly were, and not as what Cersei made us out to be,” Brienne tells her, her fists clenching and unclenching.

“So you are willing to throw your life away only just to be remembered in a certain way, do I get that right?” Arya asks.

Brienne shakes her head. “I am giving my life for his honor – and he is giving his life for mine. Because that is what they took away from us, and we will get it back, no matter the costs, no matter the sacrifice. Truth will win, and her lies will lose. On that one matter, Cersei will lose.”

Cersei won’t have them, in the end. She may kill them, but not the way the Queen fancied it. She will have to do it in the eyes of the people, no longer behind closed doors, behind prison bars. People will know – and can then make up their mind.

But with their lives, the lies will end.

_And that will make us free._

“But… but what if you handled it differently? What if you got out of this somehow alive? Wouldn’t you rather have that? Then you two could finally be together,” Arya insists, to which Brienne only ever lets out a bellowed laugh filled with pain and sorrow.

“ _Together_? What would make you think that there is such a thing out there, even if Tyrion was right, even if there was some miraculous turn of events wherein us two could live as humans again… do you sincerely think that this would make us free to what? Run away? Build a house? Get wed? Have you lost your wits?” Brienne scoffs.

Arya shrugs. “Something like that.”

That’s how the stories she tended to read or listen to ended most of the time, and while Syrio’s death gave her a bitter taste of injustice and how not always the good win over the bad – she would want to believe that there is still such an ending out there for the two.

“Then you must be truly out of your mind, Arya Stark of Winterfell. You have looked upon my face, have you not? Jaime feels duty for me because he is my friend and he protects the people he cares about. He sees himself at fault for what happened to us. He and I are not meant to be _together_. This curse ultimately proves it. Destiny wants us apart,” Brienne curses, screwing her eyes shut.

And the Gods were truly cruel for having to prove it to her that painfully. Why couldn’t they just say no? Why did they have to bring that no with so much sorrow, so much hurt, so much disgrace?

She prayed to the Gods to help her – and that was their one answer.

“Yet, you are together. Yet, you stay together. Yet, you are willing to die together,” Arya insists. That makes no sense to her.

“You don't understand, you foolish thing. There never was a way how he’d ever... _love_ me, as the Queen accused him of before she claimed that it was my witchcraft at work. Jaime was kind to me when no one else was. And he protected me when no one else would. He is my best friend, the one person I trust, but he is a man of the Kingsguard, of the Queensguard…,” Brienne means to say, but Arya is quick to correct her, “He was dismissed.”

Brienne shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. The accusations against him were wrong. He did no such thing with the likes of me. He never would have. Jaime was as honorable as one could be. He never would have broken his vows with me. Just like I never would have made him break his oaths, even if he had fancied me in that way. Those accusations were lies, nothing but lies.”

“I know that.”

“Then why do you ask?”

“What secrets did you tell Tyrion?” Arya asks again, quieter this time.

Brienne looks to the side. “That is none of your concern, I already told you.”

“Well, it now happens to be of my concern because I am travelling with you to King’s Landing,” the young girl insists.

“And if you want to go, you are free to go. I think Jaime and I made that clear enough,” Brienne retorts defensively, surprised when Arya suddenly rears up all of a sudden.

“You don’t understand! I mean that this concerns me now, too. I am a part of this now. Our paths crossed, that can’t be undone either. I want to stay with you, I want to help you. Because I feel duty for you – and for him, even if he is annoying. And I don’t want to see more people I care about dying at the hands of this wretched woman and this fanatic man controlling the city, but you are willing to walk right to your death, and I don’t even understand how it all came about!” Arya curses. “I don’t want to accept to lose the two of you, not even knowing what I am to lose you to!”

Brienne is stunned at the outburst for a moment, not having expected the girl to express such heartfelt concern for either one of them. After all, Brienne does not pride herself being a likable person. To this day, she never quite understood how Jaime and Tyrion came to think of her that fondly. And here she has a girl before her with tears in her eyes on the verge of being shed, a girl she only knows for a good number of nights, and yet… she wants to be involved in this most tragic tale.

And yet, she stays.

And yet, she wants to stand by their side.

“What secret broke all of that hell loose?” Arya asks, sinking back down on the hay, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Secrets,” Brienne corrects her, surprising herself with actually speaking out loud what she is so used to containing deep inside that mannish body that she only ever gets to have at night.

Because the sad truth is that she could pour her heart to that little girl and it would make absolutely no difference. Their plan stands. And with the plan standing, they are meant to fall. They decided on that, they carved it in the trees.

So why hide this small, unimportant flower that will wither a few days from now?

What harm could it seed in such a short amount of time?

“… The dreamwine Tyrion gave me as he worked on my wound loosened up my tongue and mind. I was lightheaded, and not as self-restrained as I normally am. I let myself go and said some things that were never meant for someone else’s ears. Tyrion has a way about people. He makes them spill their secrets, with or without some potion... and it tumbled from my lips that… that I am nobly born.”

“ _That_ is the secret? He called you Brienne of Tarth without hesitation,” Arya argues.

Brienne shakes her head.

_If only it was just that._

“No, it goes further than that. My father revealed it to me as he laid dying. That the dragon curses in our blood, too. A dangerous thing to admit at the time, especially in times of a reign resting on just that House recently overthrown,” Brienne begins to explain, drawing her knees closer up to her flat chest.

“But that was under Robert,” Arya argues.

“The issue lies more in the combination of that circumstance with another ancestral branch of my lineage, and arguably the more important one. My father told me in the good faith that I would use that part of my ancestry to make a profitable match for marriage after he passed. While the name of House Tarth rang hollow, being a legitimate heir to Ser Duncan the Tall _does_ bear on meaning even without the riches, without Evenfall Hall,” Brienne tells her quietly.

She won’t ever forget that moment he gave her the treasure chest and told her to use that to keep safe – and the thought of how Brienne failed him makes this only ever the heavier for her to bear.

Arya’s eyes widen at that. “ _Duncan the Tall_? He was a man of the Kingsguard. He took no wife. He fostered no children.”

“And he did not break those vows, but he took the vows before he became a sworn Sword to the King. He was married to a woman of my family. And they had a child that lived on. But the mother died and so… the child was raised as an Evenstar like any other, passed down the generations, all the way to me… whereas Ser Duncan then took on the White… There are parchments attesting to just that, which Father gave to me before he closed his eyes forever, alongside Ser Dunk’s shield, which rested in our armory for all those years. And he wanted me to use that, but I kept it hidden. I didn’t ever tell my septa, so to have her fail at marrying me off to whoever candidate she brought to me. Then my bad looks did enough to cast them away. A woman with only just a name, but no gold and titles, no castle or riches – and then not even pretty to look at? I was as good as any tavern wench for a high lord. And that suited me just fine,” Brienne says, chewing on her lower lip.

“So you didn’t tell anyone to escape marriage,” Arya speaks.

Brienne shakes her head yet again. “I didn’t tell anyone so to escape being married to a man who would only ever want me for his renown. I would have married for love, but not for this. Even if that meant lying to my septa, and have her take her last breath cursing my name for being such a good-for-nothing. And, in a way, I was… I could have made life easier for her, had I told her. But I made a choice, and if that meant hard labor, if that meant little money, then that was so. Even if Roelle thus hated me most of her time, I tended to her as she grew old and sick. I held her hand as she died. I put down flowers on her grave every year. But I was not willing to make that step, no matter the duty I felt for her against all odds. Then I rather kept doing what I did, then I rather kept true to myself, and hid away whatever may have promised me a higher rank, in a treasure chest I kept under my bed.”

Brienne felt guilt creeping up her neck for a long time after Roelle came to pass. The woman died in poorer conditions than the young woman could have given her, had she told her septa of the one thing her lineage bore that would make her a profitable match even around the capitol, even with her looks and lack of coin. However, Brienne couldn’t bring herself to it, even once her septa had given up and accepted that she was a good-for-nothing, gave in to her fate. Because by that time, nothing could be changed anymore anyway, so Brienne took that one secret for herself, selfishly, perhaps, but only ever with the thought in mind that she wanted to be herself, that she didn’t want the likes of Ser Humfrey Wagstaff to tell her how she was to act.

Brienne was not ready to yield, though perhaps it would have prevented a lot of sorrow for all involved if she had done just that.

_But we can’t undo the past._

“But… what does that have to do with Cersei wanting to curse you? So be it that you have Targaryen blood, so be it that one of your ancestors is a legend the likes of Ser Duncan the Tall. What would that change?” Arya argues, still trying to wrap her mind around all this.

“I can’t tell you even if I wanted,” Brienne answers, honestly at a loss. “Tyrion came to me this one time in the prison cell, and he apologized for having told Cersei just about this… and the other secret. He made mention of it, cursed to himself as he kept pacing, muttering to himself that he was a fool to tell her about just that thing. Make of that what you will, but for Cersei it was enough somehow. Perchance it was that she felt threatened in her position. She is paranoid like that, or so Jaime warned me when I asked him why he was so reluctant about the Queen knowing that we met. A woman with Targaryen ancestry, someone who shares blood with a local hero? And that a time when whispers became murmurs and murmurs became voices about how they would rather have a knight on the Throne than a Queen who has never seen Flea Bottom. Perchance that made her move rashly.”

Brienne couldn’t help but laugh to herself some many times as she served the people in the inn and heard them talk about how they would want someone with honor, “someone the likes of Ser Duncan. He was one of us, one of our own. Child of Flea Bottom, who grew up on _bowl o’ brown_. He wouldn’t have ‘em do what they’re doin’ to us now.” And she felt tempted some many times to suggest to them to see whether there is some successor out there they could give their loyalty instead of the Queen, the fellow may not be that far away. However, Brienne understood that the outcry for a local hero was ever the louder in those more and more desperate times.

_Because people search for heroes in times of need, but rarely do those heroes come._

“But then it must have been the other secret that drove her. What was that?” Arya argues, hoping that Brienne won’t shut her out yet again.

Because the young girl feels like the only way to break through can break up to her if she knows the whole story, she needs to know where it all began, so that she has a chance to change the course.

“I shouldn’t speak to you about those things,” Brienne sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“What harm’s done if you do?”

 _And isn’t she right about just that?_ Brienne thinks to herself solemnly. She bows her head even deeper. “I had... developed… certain feelings for Jaime. And I asked Tyrion to help me rid myself of them. I my drunken mind I confessed to him and asked him as my religious leader to help me… I asked him to help me rid myself of those feelings, because Jaime is a man of the Queensguard, devoted to his mission, devoted to his vows. I never had any illusion that he would break his vow for me, and neither would I have meant for that, even if he… no, it was simply a thing of impossibility. But still, it started to affect the way I acted around him and I wanted it to stop. I didn’t want to lose him to my foolery, to this weak heart.”

She didn’t to lose her one best friend to that folly, because for that, Jaime meant too much to her, means to much to her to this very day.

Her fingers close around the laces of her tunic, right above where she can feel her heart beating faster, still.

What a foolish thing that pound of flesh is.

_Even now? Even after all this time?_

“You are in love with him,” Arya says simply.

Brienne speaks nothing at that, only ever looks at the sword resting in her lap. “I don’t know what Tyrion told her exactly. He was talking fast and without much sense when he was granted to see me one time. I assume that he told the Queen about just those feelings I bore Jaime, and perhaps spun them into a greater tale, the man loves to exaggerate… and with his imagination unleashed with the aid of some wine, perchance that was how Cersei concluded that Jaime and I had lain with each other. Which is ridiculous in itself, thinking about it, as ugly as I am, knowing who he is, know who I am and what I am... but she thought it true or even if not… was ready to act on that to rid herself of me. And the High Sparrow saw the great sin we were charged of having committed. But there was no crime, just... a feeling, a treasure, in a casket I never meant to open again.”

Brienne doubts that a woman the likes of Queen Cersei would be jealous of such a “great beast” as she called her whenever she visited Brienne in the black cells. However, Jaime warned her of his sister’s pride, and how a single cut to it can make her lash out. And seemingly, the idea that a man sworn to her services, the man who joined the Kingsguard for her, as he confessed to Brienne one time, would dare to break his vows to her for this ugly woman must have cut her deep enough to make her act the way she did.

“I just don’t understand why she went as far as to have you cursed for such a thing, even if she believed it true. Why this whole charade – even if you had done what they accused you of?” Arya ponders.

“I wouldn’t ever know,” Brienne answers. “I only know she wanted me to suffer, for whatever it was. Why else would she have kept me as a bird even after she had the High Sparrow believe that I cast Jaime into the shape of a wolf? Qyburn forced the potion down my throat _after_ they had done that with Jaime before. She made me watch Jaime transform, gag in the mouth, unable to speak. She wanted me to see. And then she told me that she wanted me to see it, feel it, what it’s like to become an actual beast once I had swallowed the potion. And Cersei laughed. I reckon she hoped I would break before that, that I would confess at last, so that she could have me executed, but I wasn’t willing to budge, no matter how often the Queen let the High Sparrow read the _Seven-Pointed Star_ at me or had him tell me over and over to confess to sins I did not commit, no matter how often the Sparrows or the guards pushed and beat me around, shore my hair in preparation for the Walk of Atonement I did not undertake. I didn’t give in. And she hated it. She loathed me for it. Cersei wanted to break me, of that I am certain, and no matter what she did, I did not. Jaime did not. And that must have driven her nearly mad. But then… she found a way to break us after all.”

“The curse,” Arya whispers.

“The one victory I could wrestle from her was that I lived on. Cersei made a foolish error in her wish for revenge to underestimate me, believed me beaten already when I was not ready to yield. Had she killed me outright, the Queen may have had all that she wanted, but like this… Cersei paid a thief to take me outside the city in the midst of the night, and then kill me once I am a bird, bound down with those leather straps,” Brienne explains, pointing at the straps Jaime now uses to hold the hawk in place, though never to tie her down, of course.

_Jaime wouldn’t ever do that._

Cersei showed them to her to mock her, Jaime kept them to keep her by his side.

“Cersei may have foreseen this if she had taken a look at the way people are treated in her precious black cells. They do hand us spoons you can carve into something else. Every night I worked on the thing until it was a sharp edge. At first, I meant to use it to kill her, but never saw the chance, and then abandoned the idea once the curse came upon us. After that, it was my escape once I was on the carriage meant to take me away. It did well enough to open the locks on my chains,” Brienne says with a feeble smile.

Though her heart was pounding with nothing but dread as she was on the carriage, waiting for a chance to arise. She knew she only had one chance, and Brienne was afraid of losing, after she had suffered such great losses already.

However, the chains came undone and Brienne survived, against all odds.

“And then you knocked the man out and made a run for it?” Arya asks.

“I tossed him off the carriage and rode it far away so that he wouldn’t have a chance to chase me. And once day broke, the hawk took me out of anyone’s reach,” Brienne explains.

It was a bitter victory, but a victory nonetheless.

“Where did you hide the spoon?” Arya wants to know, tilting her head to the side.

“Under a loose stone…,” Brienne answers, and Arya completes, “In the middle of the ground… we were in the same cellar! If not for that loose stone, I wouldn’t ever have gotten the idea to hide my spoon away to crack open the lock.”

She can’t help but smile at that. However cruel the fate may be, it seems almost curious that destiny bound them together even before they met outside the city gates. Arya had already found her spirits fading when she was thrown into the black cells, but after she had knocked her feet against the edge and fell over, she was glad for the bruises, because they gave her the idea that she needed – a bit of hope hidden under a loose stone.

“I reckon I should have done that instead,” Brienne huffs. “Perchance I would have had better chances of escape, then.”

“It took me long enough to figure that out myself. And then I had to crawl down many sewers to get out. The smell was unbearable,” Arya tells her with a grin.

“I would have that any other day than this, believe me that much,” Brienne sighs.

“I imagine,” the young girl agrees feebly.

“But anyway… that is all there is to it for me. My oh so grand secrets… they mean about as little as I do, but for the Queen and the High Sparrow, that was enough already. The High Sparrow likely saw his chances to gain power in the realm, so long he supported her on that matter, and once she made it seem like it was witchcraft, he may even have believed it. She played us, and likely still plays the High Sparrow. Because against the odds of them acting as the Two Pillars now, I can’t imagine that Cersei Lannister is actually willing to share in her power,” Brienne comments.

“And neither does the High Sparrow, for all I can judge.”

Brienne shakes her head. “Gods know I loathed him. He came to me and acted kindly, even. Sat down with me and tried to reason with me. ‘Just confess, child,’ he kept saying. ‘Then we will find a way out for you. You can always atone, child. But for that, you have to confess, for that you have to voice your sins.’ And I told him over and over that there was no such sin. That Jaime didn’t do anything, that he wouldn’t ever, that I wouldn’t ever. It didn’t matter to him, though. He was convinced of our guilt. What exposed him was that I saw him standing outside while his precious Sparrows beat me around. He was not benevolent. He wasn’t kind. He just offered kindness to counter the bad he did to make me submit to him. But I did not.”

“Like the soup kitchens.”

“Like the soup kitchens, yes.”

“Such a mess because of this… I can’t believe it,” Arya mutters, shaking her head.

Such a mess, such suffering, only just because of love?

“Such a mess because I let myself go and thereby destroyed all that I ever held dear,” Brienne agrees, biting back tears.

She had grown too greedy, Brienne knows it now, but did not see it back then. She had grown greedy for Jaime’s smile, his laughter, for their rides out into the woods to shoot apples from trees and fencing until they rolled in the grass, out of breath and unable to move any further. She had grown greedy for keeping close to a man she could never have and knew she would never have. She had grown greedy for being singled out, for Jaime sneaking her into melees, for Tyrion lending her books about the Stormlands containing images of the home no longer hers. She had grown greedy for something that was not hers to have, hers to keep, to the point that she took risk after risk, and even dared to follow Jaime’s suggestion to stay until morning before returning to her reality at Flea Bottom, her actual life, what should have been hers to keep all along. She was so greedy that she cherished being in his chamber, for just a single night, only for all Seven Hells to break loose upon their heads the next morning, as guards came rushing in, pulled her out of bed, and took the smear of blood from the wound of her thigh as evidence for Jaime having broken his vows with her.

She asked for too much, wanted too much.

And now Brienne pays the price.

And the worst of all is that Jaime is bound to pay that same price for her own wrongdoings, for her greed, the one sin Brienne knows she is guilty of and that she now confesses a second time, without sweet dreamwine, but only just the taste of bitter regret parching her throat.

“I reckon Jaime does not know that part, does he?” Arya asks quietly.

“No, that’s why it was meant to stay a secret,” Brienne answers. “I didn’t want to bother him with my own folly. I thought it would pass, but before it could… I became a bird whereas he became a wolf.”

And even if she wanted to tell him now, Brienne knows she couldn’t ever say it to his face. She could scream it at the wolf – and Jaime would not know it once he awakes. It seems almost cynical that she is seemingly free to shout it from the mountaintops now that, yes, she feels love for this man, but that he wouldn’t ever hear it, and even if he did – it wouldn’t change anything.

Because their destiny is carved into the trees.

“So what is it that you two are looking for in King’s Landing beside having the truth spoken? No revolution, no rescue…,” Arya ponders.

“Freedom,” is the simple answer. “Once the deed is done… Jaime and I will be free. Cersei will no longer have power over us, over our names, our stories. The High Sparrow will no longer have the power to make us sinners. We will be free of the sins we did not commit. We will be… free, free to choose the way we wish to go. Free to choose. Free to leave.”

A small comfort, but the only one that remained, it seems.

“ _Leave_? You mean die,” Arya argues.

“When Jaime dies, I won’t stay in the world either. And he's already said it to me once that he’d rather die than live a life that’s without direction or purpose. I am ready to give my life for a good purpose, for truth. I do not fear death, for as long as it makes us free, for as long as those bindings,” she says, nodding at the leather straps, “are finally gone for good.”

“But there is hope!” Arya insists. “However small. If we do this right, if we…”

“There is no hope, I told you. We have vows to fulfill, oaths to keep. After that.... we have no purpose beyond that. At least I don’t. Even if the curse were to be undone, by some sort of miracle... I would still live my days alone. I am fine with that, but I would rather die than let him suffer through this life for much longer. Jaime gets injured because of me. He hates his brother because of me. He hates his sister because of me. Jaime loathes his own existence. He wants to kill people because of me. This is... this is not what it should be like. I shouldn’t ask him to bring himself to such dishonor for my sake. And yet I do with… merely being there.”

“But if there was a way…,” Arya means to say again, but Brienne cuts her off harshly, “There is none.”

“But what if there was? Would you confess to him, then?” the young girl asks.

Brienne snorts at that. “Gods help me, no. I would leave Jaime alone if such a miracle were bound to happen. He'd be free of the shackles that bind him to me like the leather bonds bind me as a bird. If all were to work thanks to some miracle… Once those promises were fulfilled, his duty to me would be fulfilled – and he could go on with life again, whatever shape it may take, but he would have his life to live again.”

“And where would you go?” Arya questions, entertaining far too strange thoughts for Brienne, who long since gave up on imagining more promising alternatives. The one future she sees is the one carved into the trees.

“Somewhere, anywhere. I don't know. Just... I would go. That is all there is. He would have his well-deserved peace. That is all that matters, to me at least. But it makes no difference to ask those lofty questions of what could be. Even if this night without a day or day without a night will have us meet as man and woman for just a day, there is no way that us two because, at that time, we will bring the Two Pillars to collapse. Our investment lies further in the future – on that one matter. Our hope lies in a future we are no longer meant to see or hear. But of that I am certain, even if Jaime is to kill both Cersei and the High Sparrow, we both will lose our heads for this. Jaime is a Kingslayer already, and it was only because King Robert was indebted to the Lannisters that he spared his life. If he becomes a Queenslayer as well, there is no going back. And for me? Most certainly neither,” Brienne huffs.

Who would speak for her anyway? Who would raise his or her voice for a tavern wench from Flea Bottom who aimed too high and fell too deep?

“But the people hate her and the High Sparrow,” Arya snorts.

“They also hated Aerys, and yet, they marked Jaime as the Kingslayer and loathed him for it. And Aerys burned people for all to know. Cersei does it hidden, and the High Sparrow’s sermons reached far enough to have people convinced that their salvation lies in this barefooted man’s hands. You don’t want to be at odds with the man who is meant to show you the way to the Seven Heavens. But we will change that by bringing that to the light. What happens beyond us… is the future of the people, but not ours.”

“Just why do the two of you have to be stubbornly heroic? Heroes get killed,” Arya grumbles, pulling her knees all the way up to her mouth.

“I don’t think we will be considered heroes by the end of the day. And people get killed for less,” Brienne argues. “You should try to take solace in that we get to choose our ending – and that you still have a story to write. You now have that part of the story, too, to carry with you. So you know the truth. That is… a good thing, I believe, thinking about it.”

Arya looks at her, surprised at the sudden soft tone in Brienne’s voice.

“I entrust that story to you now, too, Arya,” Brienne continues. “And so, once you go home… and I hope you will, that is how you will remember us and how you will have us remembered if anyone is to ask about us.”

“I promise,” Arya whispers.

“Thank you.”

“But still no word to Jaime?”

“No way in the Seven Hells.”

“That’s what I thought.”

The two turn their heads to look ahead as rain starts to pour heavy from a pitch black sky, listening to the diligent splish-splash outside.

* * *

 

The High Sparrow listens to the rolling of the thunder above his head as he kneels in the small altar he found underneath the far too pompous Great Sept of Baelor. To this day, he regrets to being forced to give sermons on the steps of this almost unholy building, for he is sure that the Gods did not intend for such false idols.

However, he swore to himself to put an end to the arrogance, the extravagance, the excess and false idols, strip the city bare and make it atone for its sins.

He waited long enough, though the High Sparrow knows that he must not act rashly now that he is so close. The Queen will certainly never offer him easy trust, but he does not need that, the older man is well aware. He just has to be to her service, so that she is to his service in turn.

It’s a game, for which he will have to pray to the Seven for forgiveness many, many times, but the High Sparrow does so to cleanse the city and the Iron Throne, so that, at last, only one Pillar will stand, the one true Pillar, only just the Faith.

The way it should have been once, if they had not cast them out of the city so many years ago, believing them too dangerous, when truly, they just meant to bring the Faith back into the city of sinners.

Because it is at the heart of the city where they ought to be, to change the minds of the sinners living at the center. They have to spread the medicine to world’s diseases in the red heart of the country so that it can catch on in all of the Seven Kingdoms to heal its body and cleanse it of the cursed blood of sin.

However, the Gods are merciful – and they chose the right day to make them rise. That it is the day in celebration of the Mother only ever makes the High Sparrow ever the more certain that this is the right path to take, that this is the way the Seven mean to show him. On that day, an empire will fall and rise again from the ashes of the old. And it will be the naked and the bare, the commoners, the nothings, whose voices are never heard, who will step atop the ashes of the false idols and molten crowns and sword with their bare feet and look upon the city they yet have to rebuild the way the Seven would want them to.

And he will see to that, even if that means his own corruption of the heart.

The Seven will forgive him eventually, the High Sparrow is certain of that, because he is carrying out their will, and is willing to make the sacrifice of his own damnation, if only to see false idols fall, to see crowns tumbling off royal heads, and for the bells of the Great Sept of Baelor to ring for a new age, a new time.

He saw it in his dreams, which only ever became more vivid over the years. He saw the future, he saw that he was chosen for the task, that the Seven want just that from him, and he is ready to commit himself wholly to them, to the mission they whisper into his ear every night.

Yet, his heart is weary as of late, because the beast of a man is still out there, even though the Queen had him assured that this was taken care of. And that man alone may bring to falter that which the High Sparrow built up stone by stone over the years. That man is ultimate proof for his failure, the High Sparrow is well aware.

Because the High Septon had to agree to rules that the Seven did not permit. No Trial by Faith, no confessions, no Walk of Atonement. Instead, all happened behind closed doors, without the light cascading through the windows of the Great Sept. No God’s Justice, just the Queen’s. However, the High Sparrow knew that it was a necessary deed, to gain the Queen’s trust, however fragile. He knew that some had to fall for the sake of the revolution he means to bring to the country, to the world, to finally begin.

Yet, the beast of a man keeps coming to him in his visions about the great future, threatening to take it all away from him again, as the man almost succeeded to take his life already, back in the tower.

_“What is that you are truly afraid of, High Septon? That she may have been able to cast magic or that I broke my vow with her willingly? That there may be people who want to commit sin? Or don’t see sin where **you** want to find it?”_

_“Or is it that you are more afraid of the fact that you have to live with the guilt that you may have sentenced an innocent woman to death? For what was the proof? Where is the Father’s Justice? The Mother’s gentleness? The Crone’s guidance? What if she was a maiden? The Maiden? And you ignored the signs in favor of your own profit? What would the Father have to say about that, you tell me?”_

_“Or isn’t it that you are just afraid that people commit crimes, break the rules and, yet, still are not lost, and don’t need you to absolve them of their sins?”_

_“Isn’t it that you are scared that you are not needed? That you are nothing? That the Faith is not needed to make people free of sin? That the Faith is nothing, too? That our sins are what make us human and that this is why the Gods choose us sinners even more than they do the likes of you, who like to pretend that they stand above it all?”_

_“Or are you just scared that, deep down, you are a monster perhaps even worse than you make her and me out to be? Aren’t you just scared that you are the wolf in a lamb’s skin?”_

_“Aren’t you just scared that you are a beast like me? A monster?”_

_“You want to see a monster? I can show you a monster – even without witchcraft.”_

The High Sparrow shudders, feeling his long-since healed wound aching. He had never seen such raw emotion, such bare fury as he had spotted in the eyes of the former Lord Commander. For a moment, he was convinced that Jaime Lannister would tear his throat open with his teeth.

However, experience taught him that people do desperate things in desperate times, and so, the High Sparrow tries not to pay too much mind to the words that still haunt him in his dreams all too often. Because the High Septon knows that he is just one among many. He speaks for the Faith, he speaks for the people who are not heard. He is merely the messenger.

And thus, he is willing to sacrifice his own salvation, even though people will not know of his sacrifice, will not know of the sacrifice he thus made by breaking his own rules, allowing for the Queen’s Justice to overrule that of the Faith.

 _But it was a special case_ , he reminds himself. _The woman cast magic. She did sorcery. I saw it with my own two eyes. And I could hear it in the way she spoke that her feelings for the man were true. And that in itself… was sin enough._

And even if it weren’t so, the High Sparrow knows that sacrifices have to be made to achieve the greater, so not to settle for the lesser. And the lesser is the Throne, the petty games of politics, the extravagance, the excess, the idols. He plays those games for now, so to have a chance to pull out that weed with its entire root and then cast it into the fire. And once that is done, they can start to grow new flowers, their flowers, for a new season, a season in celebration of the Gods.

It won’t be until long, he knows it. The celebration at the Great Sept will be his way to execute the Faith’s Justice and thus overrule the not so just Justice of the Queen.

“You wanted to see me?” a young man’s voice rings out behind him. The High Sparrow turns with a smile towards what he knows was the sign sent by the Gods, sent to him in the shape of a young sinner looking for answers, looking for a way to confess his sins that pulled him down, and those of someone not yet ready to commit herself to her own crimes.

“Yes, Brother Lancel. Come sit with me,” the High Sparrow agrees, gesturing at the dark-cloaked man with the seven-pointed star still an angry shade of red carved into his forehead as a sign for his commitment to their cause, to the Faith, to the Seven.

“How are you today, Brother?” the older man asks, offering a gentle smile.

“I am good, thank you… I have prayed a lot,” Lancel answers.

“As you should.”

“Why did you have me summoned?” the young Sparrow asks.

“I just wanted to be sure that your will to fight for our cause is as strong as it was when you came to me for the first time and we took you in,” the High Septon answers.

Lancel nods his head. “Of course I am. I am ready to do what is right. I have lived with the sin long enough.”

“That you did, and it was such a burden you carried, but fret not. Soon, you will fly as high as a bird, weightless and free. Only a few more days and you will no longer have to hide from the world for what you already atoned for wholly, with all of your heart and soul.”

“I am longing for that day to come at last,” Lancel mutters, nodding his head.

“I know, but the Seven will reward you greatly for your bravery.”

“And the Queen…,” the young man means to say, but the High Sparrow holds up his hands to make him stop, before going on to add, “The Seven are true and the Seven are just. They will rule over her fate, which is why… how about you take me through it one more time, yes? Just to be sure that we don’t forget anything – for we cannot afford to leave any sin unheard of once it’s time for confession, so that she can atone just as wholly as you already did.”

Lancel nods his head, sucking in a deep breath, kneading his knuckles absently as he recounts, “The Queen came to me one night, dressed in only just her night robe. I didn’t know what was happening until her lips were on mine and the doors closed behind us. I forgot that she was wed to the King, that she is my own cousin, and I forgot my own honor as I gave in to sin, gave in to my sinful nature, my weak flesh. And she gave herself over to sin as she forgot her vows, forgot the nature of our relation, too. That went on… until she asked me for two favors. The King’s wineskin that he took out to his last hunt before the boar took him – I was supposed to give him just from this one skin, as his squire, and I saw the effect immediately as he grew lazy, grew heavy in his steps, stumbled and fell as his mind kept fading until his life faded from him while the blood poured out of him thanks to the boar that impaled him… and I became that which Ser Jaime had been accused of, without judgment, though, a Kingslayer… and then… the Queen came to me again, she held me close, whispered sweet things to me… and then she gave me a scroll I was meant to put in the King’s chamber as he laid dying, bearing the King’s own seal. A will that was not his last will, but the will of the woman who gave it to me, to declare her Queen, her and no one else… and once she was crowned, she cast me out, and I realized what I had done far too late…”

“Good, good,” the High Sparrow tells him, patting the young man’s back. “Tell it to them in just that fashion, and I have no doubt that they will hear your voice, that they will hear the truth, that they will cry for justice.”

“And put me to justice, too,” Lancel adds with a grimace.

“I doubt that, my dear Brother. Because you are brave, because you confess, knowing the dangers. The people should hail you for it, but even if they don’t by some turn of fate… be sure that you will ascend to the highest Heaven once you come to pass,” the High Sparrow assures him. “Because you will carry out the will of the Seven.”

“I will fly as high as a bird.”

“Just as weightless, to make the Faith’s Justice ring at last.”

And outside, the thunder keeps rolling and tumbling from the dark sky, ringing another bell, a voice that neither one can hear, hidden away in the crypts beneath the Great Sept of Baelor.

* * *

 

Arya lets out a sigh as she rolls on the hay, the stress of the last few nights and days having brought her to drift off to sleep far faster than she would have wanted to. After all, she is still eager to convince Brienne of Tyrion’s plan, against all odds, because she is not ready to yield just yet.

Nevertheless, sleep took her rather sooner than later. However, the dark-haired girl finds herself roused from sleep slumber as she can hear hounds barking and growling outside.

The young girl pries her eyes open slowly, looking around dazed.

So many hounds at such hour?

“What’s going on?” she mutters, blinking as her eyes fix on Brienne, who puts something dark back into one of the saddlebags, her eyes already in direction of where the noises came from.

“I don’t know,” Brienne answers, her mimic alert. “I will check. Stay here.”

The tall woman stands up, fastening Oathkeepeer around her thick hips before opening the heavy wooden door leading out of the barn, out into the cold night. The drops of rain are heavy on her head as Brienne tries to catch sight of the animals, though they don’t seem to pass through the town.

However, that is when she can hear a wolf’s howl in the distance, followed by a yelp, and then the hounds bellowing again.

“Jaime,” Brienne gasps, her eyes widening in shock.

_No, not tonight._

She wastes no more time but runs back into the barn.

“What is going on?” Arya wants to know, already having sat up as she watches Brienne rush past her over to the horse whinnying at her in reply.

“Hunters,” is all Brienne replies as she climbs on Honor’s back, knowing that she has no time to saddle up, thus she holds on tight to the steed’s mane and rams her heels into the horse’s side to make him leap forward.

“Come, boy,” she mutters as Honor starts to run ahead.

“Hey, wait up for me!” Arya shouts.

“You stay here!” Brienne yells over her shoulder as she already rushes out into the night, which readily devours her contours. Arya struggles to her feet.

“She can’t mean to leave me behind yet again,” the young girl laments, bending down to grab Needle. “And now I have to walk all the way, ugh!”

However, it makes no difference. Arya pulls her hood over her head before running outside, following the noises flitting across the darkness.

Brienne maneuvers Honor past trees and brushes, all the while worried that the horse may break a leg at this rate, but she has to get close enough so she can see after Jaime. If the hounds get him… no, she doesn’t even want to imagine that, she cannot.

When she can hear Jaime’s wolf cry out nearby, Brienne is quick to dismount Honor as she sees a creek she can better take by foot than with the horse.

“Stay,” she says before rushing ahead, jumping over rough stones, almost slipping once, twice, before she can get to the other side, only to almost fall into a trap she can barely dodge by letting herself fall to the other side, even if that sends pain through her still hurting shoulder.

Brienne scrambles to her knees, before quickly tossing a piece of wood at the metal construction to have it snap shut, not wanting to take any chances that Jaime may step into this one if he comes to pass this way before she can get to him.

She hates to have to take a slower pace, but Brienne also knows that if her leg gets caught in one of these, she won’t be of any help for Jaime. Those things can take off a foot or at least cause enough damage to have you writhing in pain or die from bleeding. Thus, the blonde woman slides her feet over the ground instead of making fast strides, so that she knocks against the side of the traps instead.

Once she sees a whole bunch of them in a small dent in the steep leading up to where she wants to go, the metal glistening in the moonlight, even though the traps were covered in dry leaves, Brienne quickly bends down to pick up some pebbles and tosses them at the traps to make them snap shut.

She already means to proceed when she hears the cracking of twigs behind her. Brienne turns her head and she can see something moving past the curtain of rain.

Her hand travels to Oathkeeper, slowly unsheathing the blade.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. I wouldn’t do that if I was you,” she can hear someone call out.

“Reveal yourself,” Brienne curses. She rather fights a man of the Queensguard any other day, because they will fight you with sword in hand opposing you, whereas opponents sneaking around in her back always make her breath hitch because they rarely care about the rules of honor that come with proper swordsmanship.  

“Why would I do such a foolish thing and give away my advantage?” the man argues, laughing far too happily to her liking.

_But where are you?_

“Aren’t you a hunter?” she asks, looking around, trying to find traces, something, anything. “Shouldn’t you see about getting some deer of hares instead?”

“I am a hunter, but of a special kind,” the man chimes.

“Then what do you hunt?”

“Everything,” he snickers. “Badgers, hares, deer, lynxes… wolves.”

Brienne growls under her breath.

But not that wolf. She will see to that, and if it is the last thing Brienne does.

“I already thought you would react that way,” the man notes. “You seem quite fond of that one, hm? My dogs are getting him in the right direction, fret not.”

“Into a trap, you mean,” Brienne hisses, the rain heavy on her head, making it even harder for her to find traces of where the man may be. She can hardly see her own hand in the heavy rain, and any footsteps were long since washed away.

“He can count himself lucky that I only have my bloodhounds chase him. They won’t eat him… my other dogs, though…”

Brienne barely manages to move to the side as she feels air whooshing past her, revealing a dark-furred dog with sharp teeth and angry, bloodshot eyes. She holds Oathkeeper in front of her with both hands to keep the beast away from her, no matter how eager it seems to be for her blood.

“I didn’t feed them for a week, just to be sure that they would be even more eager to bring me the beast I am to hunt,” the man laughs from the shadows, at which the dog snaps its jaws at her seemingly for emphasis.

“But you said…,” the young woman mutters, but the man interrupts her, “The wolf is the my special treat. You, on the other hand… are the prey I am really after, _Lady Hawk_.”

Brienne’s eyes widen. The man must have followed them and overheard their conversation, then.

“Then show yourself and we shall see who wins,” the blonde woman tells him, blinking as raindrops keep falling into her eyes. “Or are you that craven not to fight a woman?”

“ _Craven_ , you say? Do you really think that this brings me into such a rage that I would give away my advantage? Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

“What do you want with me?” Brienne wants to know.

“I want you as my trophy, easy as that. And… well, I have something to be gained from this, but that’s something we can handle later all the same… for now, I think it’s time that my dogs get something to chew on.”

He whistles once, and the dog starts charging, suddenly moving to the right to break past her defenses. Brienne tightens her grip on the sword, using the broad side to batter the animal away, so to have more counterweight against the heavy breed. The dog flies a couple of feet before tumbling to the ground with a whimper, but Brienne can’t even so much as catch her breath as another dog comes out of the shadows, jumping her from the front. And if not for the chestplate Jaime put in her saddlebag ever since they passed through Duskendale, the animal would already have opened her ribcage, she is sure. Brienne knocks the hilt of the sword against the dog’s nose to make it retreat, slashing around in the dark in the vain hope to keep the dogs away from her.

“You are better than I thought,” she can hear the man taunt her from Gods know where.

“And you are more craven than I took a hunter to be,” Brienne replies, her eyes wandering around in search of the next beast to strike as she gets back up with a wince.

“You keep taunting me to no end.”

“Most men are prone to fall for that,” Brienne points out.

“Well, you have me thinking… maybe you are more fun to play with instead of just letting my dogs toy around with you,” the man then says, and Brienne mutters a silent “finally” to herself.

The man whistles another time and the dogs suddenly retreat to where they came, and out of the same shadows steps a rather short man, lean in frame, the hood hiding most of his face, though Brienne can see his sinister grin and his pale blue eyes gleaming with delight as he looks at her, seeing nothing but prey in the woman before her.

“Here I am, happy now?” he laughs, opening his arms as though to present himself to her.

“I give you this one fair warning – leave us now and no harm will come to you,” Brienne tells him.

“Harm to me? Woman, you must have lost your wits already. I am the hunter while you are the prey, not the other way around.”

“I won’t be your prey, not tonight, not ever,” Brienne tells him.

She has other missions to fulfill, missions that reach further than these woods, to ring in a city that marks both her greatest and worst times, her joy and sorrow. But she won’t end here tonight, because justice has to ring, truth has to win.

And she won’t let it fall prey to a man who hunts for the thrill, who kills for the joy of it.

“Then how about we play a while longer?” the man says, suddenly producing two knives from his gloves, his smile making Brienne shudder. “My knives are already singing for your blood. And I think it’s about time that I let them collect their prize.”

“You can try,” Brienne answers.

The man charges, then, moving swifter than Brienne thought he would. She tightens her grip on Oathkeeper and charges as well. She is surprised at how well the man can handle the small blades against her, but she pays no mind to that, aware that if she lets him cut her just one time, he will aim at a spot that will have her bleed out.

He looks stunned when Brienne swings Oathkeeper down into the mud, to have momentum to kick him square in the chest and knock him off his feet. She, in turn, can do nothing but stare for a moment as the man laughs and wheezes and laughs and wheezes as he straightens back up.

The madman waves his knife in her direction. “You… you are far better than I thought. You really got me there.”

The man gets back up before charging her again, without relent, without pause or hesitation, raining down on her about as strongly as the downpour from above itself. Brienne’s mind already starts to reel as she can only ever hear Jaime’s howls in the distance, even though she knows she has to focus on this right now foremost.

She lets out a yelp when the man manages to slice at her calf by quickly bending down to dodge her blow, thereby knocking her off her feet this time around. He straddles her, holding one to her throat so that she can feel a fine line of blood dripping down on the blade that seems almost white in the moonlight.

“How fast the game can change, hm?” he chimes, making sure to press her arms into the soft ground with his knees. “Maybe you shouldn’t have taunted me that much. Because that made me very, very angry. And do you know what I do when I am really, really angry?”

Brienne says nothing, simply tries to break free somehow as he lets his knife wander over her throat, then her face, as though he was indecisive as to where to cut first.

“I skin,” he hisses almost ecstatically. However, then something changes in his posture and mimic, turning from joy to something much darker, darker than any shadow surrounding them.

“You may not make for a pretty trophy to collect, but certainly a fascinating one. A woman who is also a hawk – and can put up a fight, but I think it’s time that we put an end to this, or else all your meat will go bad from the fright,” he then says before perking his lips to whistle another tune than the one he used before.

Brienne can feel the vibrations of heavy paws across the forest ground as he sits back slightly, the knife still readily aimed at her throat if she dares to move. This time, it will be more than one beast joining the battle, the way Brienne reckons, the man will just wait to collect his trophy once they are done with her.

The vibrations shake her body as they come closer and closer and closer.

 _I cannot lose, not now, please_ , she thinks to herself screwing her eyes shut, but that is when Brienne can hear a whimper from beside her. She as well as the hunter turn their heads to see Arya towering above the dead dog, retrieving Needle from where she punctured the beast’s throat.

“It’s Lady Hawk for you,” Arya snarls out of breath.

The hunter already means to raise his knife in order to toss it in the young girl’s direction, but Brienne uses the moment to knock her head against his, which has him reel back. Brienne, her head aching notwithstanding, wastes no time to rear up and give the man one mighty push back, onto something glistening silver in all the brown, in all the desolation.

A snap.

A shout.

A shriek ringing so loudly that the birds take flight from the trees.

A wolf howls in the distance.

“You forgot a trap,” Brienne gasps, desperate for air to fill her aching lungs, watching as the man writhes in the big trap that he laid out for her. “A big one.”

“You big, fat bitch,” the man yells, blood sputtering out of his mouth as the teeth meant to feast on her flesh now bite into his. “You got me good. You… you… and your… little friend… you got me good… so good…”

“Ask me for a quick death and I will grant it to you,” Brienne tells him, trying her best to sound stoic, when she finds her hands still shaking.

“Quick death?” he stammers, fresh blood pouring out of his mouth, only to be washed away by the heavy rain.

“What do you think is going to happen when your remaining dogs find you?” Brienne asks him in turn with a shuddered breath.

“Why would you grant me… a quick death?” he asks, life already fading from him.

“Because I take no pleasure from the kill,” Brienne answers.

The man lets out a bellowed laughter, which turns into a gurgle, more or less. “You miss out, you dumb bitch… but then again… you got me there… the prey’s got me… and all I see is Snow… Do it, Lady… Hawk.”

Brienne kicks his knives away for good measure before stepping over him, keeping true to her promise to be quick, thrusting Oathkeeper through his heart once. The man lets one last breath and then sags together, unmoving.

“Are you alright?” Brienne asks, leaning on her knees for a moment.

“Yes,” Arya answers. “Are you?”

She nods at the wound on her calf.

“Just a cut,” Brienne answers truthfully. The young girl’s eyes fall back on the man now still on the ground, trapped in the instruments of his own making.

“Who was that?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” Brienne answers, bending down to go through his pocket, a slip of parchment sticking out.

Her eyes skim over the ink that fades in the ongoing downpour.

“The Queen,” Brienne mutters, not quite believing what she sees before her eyes.

“Cersei sent him after you?” Arya gapes.

“In exchange for legitimization as the son of Lord Bolton,” Brienne answers. He must have kept that as a trophy, too.

“This is mad,” Arya mutters.

“People do whatever they have to in order to achieve that which they want most. And it seems that this is what he desired most in his life. Though he didn’t get much time to enjoy the weight of his name,” Brienne says, looking back down on the dark-haired man who wanted to kill her mere seconds ago.

Because the strange thing is that once those enemies die, become unmoving, they are strangely peaceful, just human, and no matter how much they may even desire to be seen as monsters, they are all just humans with grimaces on their pale faces.

“May you rest in peace, Ramsay Bolton,” Brienne says solemnly as she wipes Oathkeeper clean of the man’s blood. “We should hurry. The dogs will want to feast soon. And there may still be traps around.”

“Right,” Arya agrees, nodding her head.

“I am sorry you had to see that,” Brienne adds, stuffing the parchment into her pocket.

“He wanted to kill us,” Arya argues with a grimace, not quite understanding why Brienne would mean to apologize for such a thing.

“It doesn’t matter. Those are all things you should have no business with as a young girl,” Brienne tells her, which reminds Arya once more that this woman truly cares about her, and doesn’t just take her for a girl, for no one, but for herself, a girl under her protection.

And more than anything, Arya wants to return that favor, now that she feels ever the more certain that she is part of this story, to whatever end it will be.

“Come now. And watch your step,” Brienne says, starting to walk ahead cautiously.

The two proceed further into the woods, dismantling any trap they can spot, until a pack of bloodhounds run past them, whining and crying. On the top of the small hill stands the wolf to shoo them away at last.

Brienne lets a silent sigh of relief as moonlight filters through the trees to allow her a clear view at the animal, which is thankfully unharmed.

She looks right into the golden eyes of the wolf, feeling cold dread clutch at her.

Even now she is after them.

Even now she won’t leave them at peace.

Even now there is no way, no miracle.

Just fight, one last struggle.

Truth.

“There is no way for us here,” she mutters as the rain keeps falling without relent, without mercy.


	8. Goodbyes, Holes, and Hellos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime runs into someone very familiar, yet still finds himself surprised. 
> 
> The Queen meets up with her Lord Hand.
> 
> Brienne finds herself surprised, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thanks for sticking around, for commenting and kudoing and being overall so kind to me in my shredding.
> 
> This chapter is longer than most others, but I don't think it would have fitted well to divide that into two chapters just for the sake of breaking it up into two parts. 
> 
> I divert some more from the movie original because King's Landing does not feature icy mountaintops last time I checked, so I thought I would run with this instead. 
> 
> I hope you are going to like this chapter.
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

“… A hunter, you say?” Jaime asks as he fixes his attire, still eager for some information on what went on last night, of which he naturally has no recollection whatsoever. The former Lord Commander was surprised to find the Stark daughter calling out his name only short time after he woke up as a man again, though the news of a hunter being after them certainly explains the worry on the young girl’s face as she leans against a tree, though her features are anything but relaxed, even though she tries to play it down for all Jaime can judge.

“Ramsay Snow… well, _Bolton_. The Queen’s legitimized him as heir in exchange for bringing her the two of you – not that he got to enjoy the honors for long, though,” Arya answers, letting a small shudder at the thought.

Brienne made sure of it that they returned safely to the barn after the deed was done, but even as they went, they could hear the dogs feasting on their own master, and that made the young girl shake even without the cold of the rain. As Brienne noted with a grimace: “Perchance he shouldn’t have starved them for a week.”

But it seems that this is what you get in exchange for trying to make dogs into monsters of their own, strip them bare of all that makes them loyal companions, to the point that they make no difference and bite whatever is within their jaw’s reach.

_More often than not, people create the monsters they fear most._

“You know, sometimes I think I should be surprised that this is my own sister doing it, but then… here I am cleaning myself from whatever blood the wolf held his snout into last night,” Jaime grumbles, pouring some water from the skin the girl thankfully brought along to wash his face with.

In fact, there are quite a few things that are good about having a companion beside the one he can’t touch, can’t see, even though the girl proves annoying on most other occasions.

“We already thought the worst after we heard the hounds,” Arya comments, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

“The wolf is strong and swift… and he doesn’t like dogs,” Jaime comments, offering a small smile that the girl returns in kind.

“I hope neither one of you got hurt severely in the battle?” Jaime adds with a more serious undertone.  

“Brienne got a small scratch from a knife, but it didn’t even bleed much,” the young girl answers quickly. She was worried as well, but Brienne didn’t even as much as flinch when they wrapped it back in the barn.

Jaime nods his head slowly, feeling as though a needle started poking at his heart yet again. Even the smallest of pains Brienne may suffer hurts him doubly, because she shouldn’t have to undergo any of this. She shouldn’t be hunted like a beast.

She shouldn’t be hunted at all.

_She should be free._

Jaime lets his gaze wander to the canopy, where he can see her shadow flit across the treetops as Brienne keeps flying circles above their heads, which seems to be the one small freedom that Cersei and her wicked maester granted Brienne unknowingly.

Because up in the sky, almost no one can get to her.

“Good,” Jaime mutters, raking his fingers through his hair to ease them back with the remaining water in his palm. He caps the skin again before stuffing it back into the saddlebag to retrieve the lighter leather jacket for the day, frowning to himself as he runs his thumb over ridges not familiar to his touch. The man glances down at the apparent reparations and stitches that were done on it, because he didn’t bother with the task as of late, never having been too fond of doing his own stitches in the first place.

A smile fades across his lips as the hawk shrieks above their heads. It’s those almost-nothings that bear on so much meaning these days. A rusty chestplate bought at Duskendale with the bit of extra coin he had to spare or spending the night redoing the stitches for a man who is not good at doing them, the rich lordling he still is on occasion, as Brienne would likely accuse him of it – to most other people, those things don’t mean much of anything. For them, however, they came to mean the world, however small, however compressed so that they fit into two saddlebags.

Jaime quickly slips into the jacket, then, brushing his fingertips over the new ridges another time to familiarize himself with them, to make them part of his small routine, part of himself, to make sure his body remembers that his small life ebbed into hers and hers into his as she must have spent the night doing the reparations, brushed her calloused fingertips over his jacket as she did the stitches.

Because it is in the fabric of a jacket, in the ridges of some stitches, that their worlds keep colliding, where one life spills into the saddlebag of the other.

“Well, one problem less, then, I assume,” Jaime comments, sucking his lower lip into his mouth with a contemplative frown. “At the same time, I don’t want to know what else my sister may have in store just to make sure that we find the end she sees fit for us.”

“With all due respect, your sister is a Mad Queen,” Arya scoffs.

“With all due respect, she most certainly is,” Jaime huffs. “Though I will admit that I should have seen that earlier, like some many things, but then again, I seem to be a slow learner…”

The young girl tilts her head to the side. “You didn’t see what?”

“I was rather sure that she was hungry for power early on. Cersei always wanted that which she couldn’t have, already as a child. Even if she soon lost interest once she had it. Cersei once dressed up as me because we looked so much alike as twins, because she felt that I was given more rights as a boy. My sister grew tired of it after a few days because she always lacked discipline and didn’t fancy fighting with swords after all. Complained about the blisters it gave her and returned to her silks and stitches instead. But that is quite something else from what… all this here is,” Jaime sighs. “I honestly thought I had it under control, that I could bring her to reason somehow, anyhow. I thought that if I kept talking to her, Cersei would go out of her way at some point, but I was mistaken.”

Gods know how he tried to make her reason when it came to Tyrion, over and over again, and at some point Jaime doesn’t even want to know what Cersei would have done to the dwarf if he had not spoken up as much as he had, without relent. Because at this point, Jaime wouldn’t put it past his twin to have ordered for their youngest brother to be tossed off a cliff to do “as Father would have wanted it” because Cersei always fancied herself being Tywin Lannister without the cock between the legs, even though she remained blind to the circumstance that for this, too, she always lacked the discipline.

Gods know he tried.

And Gods know he failed.

Jaime always was the mediator in the family, as everyone seemed to hate one another more than there was ever love between them, and once his father came to pass, Jaime hoped to change that by keeping Cersei and Tyrion close to each other, by making mention of their little brother whenever he was summoned to the Queen’s chambers.

In the end, none of it made a difference, though, which means that this marks yet another set of mistakes Jaime is paying for now, bound to feast on raw hares and Gods know what else the wolf gathers between his teeth at night.

“Things changed after some time, after Robert came to pass, once she was more secure in her position as Queen. I thought it was fright that was driving her, perhaps, and that this made her heart so stony towards her own family,” Jaime recounts. “She seemed less intense in a way, during that time. Laughed more often. Even seemed to listen to me when I reported on what was going on in Tyrion’s life. But that was when I grew careless, and that… meant our doom.”

_The sad thing is that you only learn those lessons looking back at that which is already out of your reach of fixing._

“You mean you went out to see Lady Brienne more often?” Arya suggests.

“I didn’t hide it as much anymore. My sister had seen her around the palace, and she only ever smiled wordlessly before walking on. I thought that this was Cersei’s way of showing acceptance. I was cautious nonetheless, until the night that changed it all, that is,” Jaime mutters, bowing his head slightly, his gaze wandering down the hills to where green shrubs sway in the soft breeze.

“Brienne made mention of that,” the young girl comments.

“It was something so simple if you think about it. We had lost track of time while we had ridden off, stating that we were off _hunting_ , though we rarely went hunting,” Jaime recounts, a smile flashing across his lips. “We ate and drank and fought with swords. It was a glorious day. We only returned once it was already dark outside. And it was _pouring_ rain. Parts of the streets were even flooded. I told Brienne that she shouldn’t bother making for her small chamber all the way down Eel Alley, but instead seek refuge in the Red Keep. I just wanted to know Brienne wouldn’t slip and fall off the horse on the way to Flea Bottom. I thought nothing of it. Which was a foolish mistake to make, I know that now, but that was what it was…”

She would have been safer in Flea Bottom, he knows that now. After all, Brienne is a gifted rider, has always been, but he thought it the right thing to do, and the shy smile she flashed him when she said yes at last had him convinced that it was the right thing to do, because a bit of chivalry can’t harm, even if it comes from the likes of the Kingslayer.

Because it didn’t matter to Brienne, it never did, once he told her the story behind the name, hidden away in the shadows of the crypts underneath the city he chose to protect more than his king.

“You just wanted to do your friend a favor,” Arya argues, hoping to offer some kind of reassurance, because she can well understand it.

“And that was still enough,” Jaime argues, shaking his head, the smile completely vanished. “We went inside… the whole castle was already asleep. We didn’t want to wake one of the maids to prepare one of the guest rooms, so I told Brienne to come with to mine. My chamber was spacious enough, I said to myself. We thought nothing of it. We didn’t know we were being watched. We didn’t know we were in danger. We were simply… _living_ , after I had been more or less dead for so long…”

Jaime looks to the side, swallowing thickly. He never really said that out loud, though he reckons that the woods will do well to carry that story away and make it no more than a faint whisper passing between leaves and boughs swinging in the wind. Brienne made him feel joy again after he felt dead on the inside after he killed Aerys. Because he could not speak, didn’t want to let himself be judged by the Wolf, honorable Eddard Stark, whose heart was always hard towards him for paving the way for his precious Robert nonetheless.

However, all of that anger faded soon as the city returned to its usual routines, and Aerys’ fire became no more than ashes and smoke, and it left him with nothing but emptiness, one that even his family wasn’t able to fill. He had seen things, done things, not done things that Jaime can’t even begin to name, all that for a misguided fancy, a short-lived fantasy that he thought was going to pull him through the darkest hours, but did not.

However, then a light began to shine at him, blinded him almost, and then knocked him into the dust at a melee, only to reveal itself as a mannish woman with a constant scowl on her face and the most brilliant blue eyes he has ever seen.

And that light shone on as he got to know her, if it didn’t shine even brighter, because they were so different, and yet so much alike, and that was when Jaime found a light within him that he thought had been doused by circumstance, by his reputation, his stigma.

And suddenly, there was joy in the act of crossing the blades, there was joy in something beside his duty to the Crown that he held on to with almost unbearable desperation at the times of darkness in his life, to keep a purpose somehow. He found joy in his own life, in himself, in shedding the White to walk with Tyrion and Brienne down the streets of King’s Landing and plot another time to see her off to a melee to have the people cheer for a woman some many seemed to mistake for Ser Duncan the Tall.

He was dead, and she brought him back to life again.

And yet, Jaime was not and likely won’t ever be able to return the favor.

Because all he can offer is a quick death.

“I made Brienne take the bed, because she wanted to refuse me, arguing that she is the guest, the stubborn wench she is. And what a host it would have made me to refuse her proper guest, right? We thought it was a humorous thing to talk about sin like that by the time… We were both a bit drunk from the wine we took along on our trip, so I just held her down on the bed the way we had done so many times when fighting dirty, and not at all the way you do it in proper tourney… It was nothing, just living. She finally accepted the bed and I slept on the chaise lounge. We bid goodnight and were fast asleep. That was all, and regardless of it, it was the most foolish mistake I ever could have made,” Jaime mutters. “And it brought such havoc despite its simplicity, despite its unimportance to the rest of the world.”

It would have been for the best if the lights had been kept out, if Brienne’s light had shone on without him bathing in it, because then they likely wouldn’t be in this situation – and Brienne could go on shining, out of sight for all those who mock her, all those who don’t see what Jaime was granted to lay eyes upon.

_But it still stands: The sad thing is that you only learn those lessons looking back at that which is already out of your reach of fixing._

And that is far, far out of his reach already.

“So… you didn’t trust Cersei on those matters – and yeeeeet…,” Arya says, her voice trailing off towards the end, which has Jaime frowning at her. “Are you implying something, little wolf?”

“Well, I just keep thinking that this sounds a lot like what your brother’s done,” the young girl answers, shrugging her frail shoulders.

“If this is yet another attempt of yours to try to convince me of how Tyrion’s idea is supposed to offer us a carefree life, you might just as well try your luck elsewhere, little wolf,” Jaime scoffs, unimpressed. “If all of what he said is true, then we will die this way or the other.”

“Why do you and Brienne have to think the same _all_ the time?” Arya pouts. “Ugh, you are unbearable.”

Even though they are apart, they seem to share a mind. If only the Gods would finally grant them to know of that, then maybe Arya would have it far easier to convince the two, but no, that wretched curse makes her a messenger and keeper all the same, and the young girl is not yet sure how to bridge between the two to make them open their eyes to the hope she sees and wants them to see as well.

While Arya came to understand what Lady Brienne and Jaime argue about when they point out that the Queen will want them dead if the curse can be undone indeed, she is not willing to give up, not yet. She saw a man turning into a wolf, she saw a woman turn into a hawk. She saw two people sharing one life and not give up.

_If that is not a miracle already, then why is a future where both can life so utterly outrageous, so very far out of reach?_

“Because we spent our days entertaining just those ideas for longer than you have, girl,” Jaime huffs, grimacing at her. “This is simply something bound to happen. We made our peace with that.”

Of course Jaime thought about how it would be like if the curse could be broken somehow. Day after day he pondered the solutions, consulted with warty medicine women and witch doctors all the same in towns far off the usual tracks, even spent time at some small libraries to go over the records, and that despite the fact that Jaime is not fond of reading or writing altogether. Nevertheless, there was no solution, no matter where he looked, no matter whom he asked. And yet, as Jaime kept entertaining those ideas, as he kept pondering the what ifs and what could bes, the realizations were all the more sickening – that there was no way for them to live beyond the day that they expose themselves to the Queen and the High Sparrow, even if there was a way to do what every medicine woman and witch and witcher only ever chuckled at or gave a shake of the head.

There is no future beyond that day, at least not for them to live.

Their lights are meant to go out, simple as that. The one light they can bring to shine will guide the way for others, but not themselves.

“Even if so, I don’t get it that you push your brother away like that,” Arya points out to him, pulling Jaime out of his thoughts, back to the dark-haired girl acting way too smart and smug around him to Jaime’s liking, though he reckons that it’s only fitting for a daughter of Catelyn and Eddard Stark. She has her mother’s stubbornness and her father’s dogged sense of honor – and Jaime already has a person in his life with just those virtues, thence he is not in dire need of another person with just those characteristics.  

“Hm, let me ask this way around, then: How did you run away from your family to become a water dancer instead?” Jaime shoots back. “How did you manage that?”

Arya gapes at him. “Oh, that is unfair.”

“I am not exactly known for being a fair man, you see. Comes with the life of being an outlaw,” Jaime snorts with a grin.

“It’s something else with my family and me,” Arya insists defensively, even though the sting in her chest tells her that Jaime, sadly, may be not as far off with the comment as she would want him to be.

“Which is why you would do better not to meddle in our affairs – because they are not the same as they are with your clan,” Jaime argues. “I keep my distance from Tyrion because when I look at him, I see what he has done, and I see what I have done. When I look at him, I see all the wrongs that led to this situation.”

The young girl tilts her head at that, noting the edge of pain in his voice, the deeply-embedded sorrow Jaime tries to overplay, tries to hide away, but she sees it nonetheless.

“So it’s not just him you blame,” Arya comments.

“It’s _myself_ I blame for my own recklessness. What makes me angry with Tyrion is that he kept things to himself. He didn’t tell me straight away what had happened. He didn’t tell me about what he told Cersei. He didn’t tell Brienne. My little brother let us walk exposed, and even once the damage was done, it was only until after I was cursed that he finally came clear to me. He kept this from me,” Jaime curses, gritting his teeth. “I don’t even say that he should have told me _what_ Brienne said to him, but Tyrion could have told me _that_ he said something, but no. He kept silent. Why? I don’t know. Maybe he was just too scared, but even then… I just can’t understand it. I can’t fathom that he lied to us like that. And if there is one thing he should know that I can’t stand, then it is betrayal towards one’s own family. How else would I come to despise my own twin sister the way I do now?”

Tyrion hurt Brienne, by breaking her trust. And that was what makes Jaime’s heart ache even more just thinking about it. Because Jaime knows that Tyrion liked Brienne well enough, once he got past his own prejudices against this woman – because even a dwarf does not naturally like all that seems at odds with the world, even more so because Brienne was not exactly what Tyrion would have sought out in a woman, before or even after he took his vows. However, once he got to know her, once he saw what Jaime saw in her, there was no doubt in Jaime’s mind that it was friendship that connected the two, that Tyrion meant to stand up for her the same way she stood up for him some many times while Jaime was bound to the Red Keep and could not keep watch over his little brother, who got himself into trouble more often than not.

And yet, all of that faded in the face of the secrets he kept, and the secrets of secrets that he kept hidden for too long, be it for shame or out of arrogance – he let them walk right into a trap that was laid out and even when Tyrion started to confess to Jaime, all he had to offer was smart talk instead of a simple apology.

“And anyway, even if it wasn’t that hard to look upon him – do you truly think I would endanger my brother by keeping around him?” Jaime then adds with a scowl.

Arya turns her head in his direction abruptly, strands of her hair falling into her eyes. “ _What_?”

“That Cersei only ever cast him out of the city to take on that abandoned septry was perhaps more fortunate for him than not. But do you think that Tyrion would have enjoyed safety for long, had we stayed there?” Jaime tells her, shaking his head, well knowing the answer. “No one was supposed to know that we are even alive. And the fact that they went there to look for me should be telling that I do best keeping away from my brother, for his own good.”

“So you want to protect him after all,” Arya comments, a smirk flashing across her features. She was almost certain of that, but it can’t harm to hear it from the old coot himself.

“Why, yes,” Jaime answers, the words easily slipping from his tongue. Because he can very well make the difference between someone making foolish mistakes and hiding them and actively having the people Jaime cares about harmed in the cruelest ways. He knows that Tyrion is not the villain of this tale. Cersei managed to trick him somehow or maybe Tyrion thought he was playing her much smarter than he actually was. Tyrion, against the odds of his height, has a high self-esteem after all. However, in the end, it was not malice that drove his little brother, of that Jaime was certain from the start.

And that means he will keep his vow, made by a cradle when grief of his mother’s death was still fresh on Jaime’s mind as a boy, taking hold of the small fingers readily clutching at his, promising to make sure that Tyrion was safe – because he knew already back then that not many people would make that vow.

_And I won’t break that oath, even if I want to strangle that fool half the time._

“Well, good to hear, then,” Arya says.

“You are on to something,” Jaime says with a grimace.

The young girl shakes her head. “Oh, no, I am not.”

“Little wolf, you may have been passable enough a thief to survive in the city, but from one outlaw to another, you are a poor excuse of a liar right at this moment,” Jaime informs her.

“I am just saying that I think you should listen to your brother, even though he has given you a lot of grief. If he didn’t care, do you really think he would be that eager to find a solution?” Arya contends.

“You heard him, he is chasing absolution for his sins, and I am the wrong person to turn to for that matter,” the older man argues.

No, Jaime has other things to focus on than his brother’s salvation or peace with the Seven. That is something his brother will have to take care for himself.

That is a battle he cannot and will not fight for Tyrion.

“He means to repay the debt he owes _you_. He wants to _redeem_ himself, to you, to her. I can’t see the wrong in that,” Arya insists.

“I can't give him absolution – even if I wanted to,” Jaime argues. “I am no septon.”

“But you can give him a chance to redeem himself to you,” the young girl points out to him. “Your forgiveness does not depend on the Seven.”

“So what? Do you want me to ride all the way back to the septry, sit down with him and listen to Tyrion bearing his little heart to me over yet another flagon of wine?” Jaime scoffs, because he got a taste of that already back in the tower, where Tyrion only ever lamented about how he got it all wrong instead of admitting to his own wrongdoings and going from there. Instead, he kept making excuses.

And Jaime was not ready to excuse, not ready to forgive.

“No, but you could come further down the hill and hear him out on the solutions he has to offer for his own redemption,” Arya says with a crooked grin.

“He is… he is here?” Jaime gapes, blinking, to which the brunette shrugs her shoulders. “I caught him this morning as I came out of the barn. Seems like he has been following us ever since we left.”

“And here I thought he wanted to keep hiding away in the septry…,” Jaime mutters, looking down the hill with a grimace.

“He is devoted to you and Lady Brienne. Why else would he be here, hm?” Arya argues, stretching out her arm to gesture around. “If your brother saw no reason, if he saw no way, do you sincerely think that a man as clever as him would make all the way to this small town on a carriage with a stubborn mule at the front?”

Jaime tears his gaze to his left when he can see a familiar shadow breaking through the canopy. He holds out his arm for the hawk to land on, though to his surprise, if not shock, Brienne flies past him to land on Arya’s still outstretched arm.

“I think you all mean to conspire against me,” Jaime grumbles as he takes up the saddlebag before walking up to Arya, who still looks rather stunned at the majestic bird sitting on her arm.

“And here I thought you knew what loyalty meant, wench. At such times you abandon me? Hm?” he scolds the bird, letting out a laughter when she readily hops on his shoulder at that. “You little traitor.”

Sometimes he _does_ wonder whether some of Brienne doesn’t actually live on in that bird after all.

“I’d think that the hawk just shares in my sentiment that you should see your brother, and seek answers to the questions you yourself seem to have,” Arya tells him, sincerely hoping that his irritation with the bird deciding to sit on her arm won’t make him change his mind.

Because when Arya saw the carriage, she saw hope flicker back up, which is why she was fast on her feet to gather the saddlebag for Jaime and search him in the woods.

“ _Questions_? What questions would I have to ask him?” Jaime says with a grimace.

“About the secrets he’s told, perhaps?” the young girl suggests.

Jaime narrows his eyes at her. “Has he told you?”

“No word of that, no. But…,” Arya answers, yet, he cuts her off, “But you know it after all?”

“Lady Brienne’s admitted it to me last night,” the young girl confirms.

“She did?” Jaime asks, blinking, his eyes fixing on the bird, quite surprised to hear that, because this sounds very much unlike the woman who would go such lengths to hide a secret away by entrusting them to Tyrion.

“Yes. So, do you want to know?” Arya asks, though to her surprise, Jaime only ever shakes his head, looking at the hawk on his shoulder.

“… It is not my secret to know. I would betray her trust in me if I asked you to tell me. She told it my brother and you, not me. The reason for it is hers the same way the secret is hers to keep,” he answers, swallowing, though the girl can see that he would want to know.

 _Honorable intentions be damned, just why can’t they let go of that just once?_ the girl thinks to herself in frustration.

“But…,” Arya means to say, but Jaime hops over a root in direction of the foot of the hill.

“Will you have an eye on her while I go see about a dwarf and a mule?” Jaime then asks, not even looking at her as he extends his arm to brush against Arya’s, at which the bird readily hops off his shoulder, down his arm, until she takes her position back on the young girl’s shoulder.

“Alright,” Arya mutters as Jaime moves past her. She looks back at the hawk. “Let’s see where that goes. Maybe one mule can convince the other after all, who knows?”

The hawk shrieks – and Arya hopes it is in agreement.

Tyrion, meanwhile, has his dear trouble with the mule because that animal just won’t move a single inch ever since he hopped back on the wagon, for it seems that his brother already chased ahead instead of staying in the town for breakfast at least, which would have given him some time to catch up and perchance make his older brother sit down with him.

However, Tyrion is aware that this is likely the kind of punishment the Gods mean to assign to him to test him in his devotion.

But he will not fail this time.

_Unless the mule gives up on me after all, which seems very likely, granted that the thing keeps trying to kick me._

“I seem to recall that I told you to stay away last time we met.”

Tyrion whips his head around in direction of the source of the man’s voice, shocked and yet relieved to see Jaime striding down towards him.

“And you may recall that I hardly take advices from other people, even though I likely should,” Tyrion answers, keeping his tune light.

“I hope you didn’t just follow us because you ran out of wine.”

“I have my wineskin, though I try to… drink a little less,” Tyrion admits.

Jaime tilts his head to the side. “Hm, then miracles seem possible after all.”

“I surely hope so,” the younger man agrees. Jaime nods his head slowly as he looks at the small carriage and the stubborn mule not moving by just an inch, far too focused on the rich green grass, even though Tyrion leans against the animal’s side.

“What are you doing here, Tyrion?” the older brother sighs, tearing his gaze back around to the younger man.

“Why? What do you think am I doing here? Fighting with a mule in the hope to convince another,” Tyrion answers.

“I may remind you that the _mule_ you mean to convince may feel offended by being called such,” Jaime huffs, if more or less amused. It seems easy to slip back into the tone they used on one another all the while before, though it seems almost too easy on occasion.

“I just try to speak the truth for a change,” the younger man says.

“Now, there is wonder,” Jaime exhales. “Though I will say that I am surprised to see you here. I thought you would rather drown your sorrows at the bottom of a cup of wine, or rather _many_ cups of wine.”

“And truth be told, this is what I wanted to do ever since I got on the carriage,” Tyrion chuckles nervously, abandoning the mule to leave the animal to its green feast.

“And Gods know why you even bothered getting here,” Jaime mutters.

Tyrion bows his head. He likes to slip into the easy conversations. They give him a bit of security, but he comes to realize that he has to leave that aside. That was what made Jaime’s face go lithic at some point. While his older brother, too, slips into the easy conversations, it is far too tempting to drift away, to lead away from the bitter core of the apple that came to spread the poison they all have to swallow since.

“Because…,” Tyrion mutters, struggling for the words, because he put aside his attempts of crafting the speech beforehand, practicing it, after it bore no good result last time.

Jaime cocks an eyebrow at him. “ _Because_?”

“I am afraid you will pull the sword on me if I say what you forbade me to say – but to Hells with it, I bother because you are my _brother_ , Jaime, like it or not. And I want to save my brother from the sorrow I brought upon him. I want to save him from himself if need be. And I want to save the woman who means so much to you – and to me, for she was me a friend when I least expected it, even when I least deserved it. I want to help you because now I can! Now I can help the both of you because I have abandoned my arrogance, I have shed it, I swear it’s true.”

“You shed your arrogance?” Jaime repeats.

“It’s possible even for us Lannisters to be humble on occasion,” Tyrion tells him. “But that’s another matter. If you are willing to hear me out, I will explain it to you. But you have to _listen_ to me, and by that I don’t just mean that you hear the words I speak, I mean that you take what I say to heart and at the very least consider it. If it is you any comfort, make yourself believe that it isn’t me who is saying the words, because I just need you to hear them, in your heart.”

Tyrion knows that with his brother, he isn’t just done speaking easy truths, stating the facts. That was likely one of the reasons why Jaime sent him out as he last confessed in the tower. Tyrion was so busy offering explanations and excuses that he forgot that his brother’s heart was broken, and that it was to this pound of flesh that he had to respond, too.

Jaime sighs as he makes his way over to the man, simply sitting down on the moist grass next to him. “Then speak.”

“Well, it seems without question that I set this forth, but I just want to…,” Tyrion says, but Jaime cuts him off harshly, “Are you yet again trying to talk yourself out of it? Because I will have none of that.”

“No, no, I know of my part in it all, I just… it doesn’t matter. Gods, I am normally swift with the tongue, but this is too important to craft a speech for, I am afraid,” Tyrion sighs, sitting down next to the older man with a sigh. “You will have to bear with me, thus.”

“Then speak from the heart. I am a simple man in no need of elaborate words or a well-crafted argument,” Jaime argues, chewing on his lower lip. “Just… speak from the heart.”

“Yes, yes, well… I just try to think about where to begin,” Tyrion admits sheepishly, all the while wondering how it is possible that his brother and Brienne are the two people in all of the Seven Kingdoms how manage to render him speechless so often.

“I have an idea – I will ask you something: Why didn’t you tell me what happened between you and Cersei? So be it that she managed to loosen up your tongue. Why didn’t you talk to me – or to Brienne for that matter? Why did you keep it hidden?” Jaime jumps in, tying his best to keep his voice leveled, though the anguish pours out of his mouth all the same.

“Because I was sober the next morning and realized what I had done, and I tried all within my powers to see it fixed before it could be exposed to the light of day,” Tyrion admits, fiddling with his fingers nervously. “I didn’t want you to see my wrongdoings… and I thought I could fix it without… without you looking at me the way you do now.”

“You truly must be one of my blood, only the likes of us can be such fools,” Jaime huffs.

“I am afraid that this is true,” Tyrion laughs nervously. “I thought there was still time to lessen the damage. I didn’t even know the impact of the blow until they took you into custody. In fact, I was quite certain that I had made a good deal until that moment.”

“ _Deal_? What deal, Tyrion?” Jaime wants to know – because the younger man made no mention of that when he confessed to his involvement in the affair. Tyrion only ever said that he had made a “small miscalculation in need of fixing.”

“If you wish to know, you will have to ask me for Brienne’s secrets, I am afraid,” Tyrion warns him.

“So you would tell me?” Jaime asks, his mimic blank.

At some point it seems that this secret is haunting him about as much as his own sister and the High Sparrow.

“I’d think at least the one I can risk without shattering the last bit of confidence Brienne may still have in me,” Tyrion answers.

Jaime frowns. “So there is two of them.”

“Yes.” Tyrion nods his head.

“Then… start with the one that you think you can tell me about freely,” Jaime replies, because he feels like he would betray Brienne’s trust if he were to ask, even though it is tempting, because, of course, he keeps thinking about it. He would like to know just what it was that Brienne would keep from him, as honest as she is on every other matter.

“Alright… well… It all began when you brought her to me to tend to her wounds,” Tyrion says, licking his lips.

“Yes, I recall.”

“Brienne told me, drunk on the dreamwine, that she was of far nobler blood than most people will ever know,” Tyrion goes on to say.

“Daughter of Lord Selwyn Tarth, the Evenstar, crescent moons and sunbursts…,” Jaime recounts, but Tyrion interrupts him before he can go on to recite the rest, “No, I mean, _yes_ , but that was not the matter. On his deathbed, her father bequeathed her with a treasure chest and the knowledge that Brienne’s ancestry ties in with that of the Targaryens, something that she was right in keeping low at times when Robert was still overtaken in his fury over the Targaryens and wanted to annihilate the entire clan.”

 _That would explain her light blonde hair of hers_ , Jaime thinks to himself, remembering that he once joked about it while out in the woods that she could pass for a Targaryen, if her eyes weren’t blue but purple instead.

“Certainly… so what? You told Cersei this and she thought that Brienne would be the second Dragon Queen to rise against her? That seems outlandish even for someone as lost in her own world as our sister happens to be,” Jaime argues with a grimace. That makes no sense to him whatsoever.

“No, it was about that other testament to her noble birth that lay in this box that… contributed to all this,” Tyrion replies slowly.

“Which was?” Jaime asks.

“That her ancestry reaches back to the legendary Ser Duncan the Tall.”

“Dunk? He was a man of the Kingsguard,” Jaime argues, shaking his head. He let his fingers trace the letters in the Book of the Brothers some many times before flipping to his page, which still had far too much open space, though Jaime was convinced that he would have the time to fill those empty pages.

_Just that I did not._

Because time seemed to overturn itself once all hell broke loose. After that, his life seemed to be over before it ever came to life again a second time. And Jaime is rather certain that there won’t be a third time.

“There was a time when Duncan travelled to Tarth, for all that we know. The records are sparse on the matter. He travelled to the isle and he wed a woman with crescent moons and sunbursts in the banner. That was before he joined the Kingsguard, and hence… it was a marriage like any other. From that union, a child was born, but the mother found her end after giving birth to the child. There is no way to know why Dunk didn’t stay, perhaps it was even grief that was part of the reason why he joined the Kingsguard after that. What can be said with certainly is that the child was raised as a Tarth and it was no longer spoken of, the one testament being the parchments attesting to the union – and Ser Duncan’s legendary shield sitting in Evenfall Hall’s armory for all those years.”

“Why would Brienne keep that from me?” Jaime asks, frowning.

“I don’t even think she kept that one from _you_ as much as she kept it from her septa,” Tyrion answers. Jaime narrows his eyes at the mention of that woman. “Ah, that horrid person.”

He felt tempted some many times to have a word with this split-tongued septa, if not for Brienne insisting that she didn’t mean it the way it came across to him. And against all odds, against the many times she expressed her grief over Roelle, Jaime can still recall the tears streaming down her face when she told him that her septa passed away, just like he can recall that this was one of the few times he just held her close wordlessly to let Brienne weep.

“Brienne didn’t tell Roelle to spare herself being wed off against her will. Like that, she stood almost no chance of making a suitable match on Brienne’s behalf. However, as the successor to Ser Duncan the Tall, some many men may have looked past her ungainly looks in favor of the echo this name still makes ring down the streets of entire Westeros to this very day,” Tyrion explains.

Jaime can’t help but frown again. While he heard and laughed wholeheartedly when Brienne recounted having “broken a betrothal by breaking bones,” because Jaime saw that old man who dared to tell Brienne how she was to act an ill-suited match without measure, it never crossed his mind that she would go such lengths to escape marriage.

To him, Brienne only ever said that she was not made of the stuff that it takes to be wed, which only has Jaime wonder now why she would, till last, refuse to use the stuff that would certainly have offered her a better life than all Jaime could ever grant her. After Septa Roelle was gone for good – what hindered Brienne from finding a suitable match for herself and then play out the trump that she was of not just royal but noble blood?

 _What stopped you from living a peaceful, happy life like this, Brienne?_ he thinks to himself. _What held you off from your own happiness like that? What was it?_

“But what difference does that make now when it comes to Cersei? Dunk was no royal, no threat to the throne. How would his successor be to the point that Cersei would see Brienne as a threat to her power, thus?” Jaime questions, because that makes about as little sense to him as does Brienne’s reluctance of finding a suitable match for herself.

“Have you been in the streets some time before you were arrested?” Tyrion asks cautiously.

“No, I was in the Red Keep,” Jaime answers.

“Precisely. But I was there. I was in the taverns… and the brothels. The people were weary of the Faith Militant, which was yet to come to rise. And Cersei? They had nothing but grief for her. They were shouting for Robert, even though he had thrown them into debt to the Iron Bank. They were shouting for his brothers who had gone to war to win the crown, only to wind up killing each other instead. But then they were shouting for the legends, the heroes, for one of their own,” Tyrion explains.

“They wanted someone like Ser Duncan the Tall,” the older brother mutters.

“They wanted someone who was of their rank, who knew of their troubles, who had felt their pain. They wanted someone of honor, of chivalry, the old codices, who devoted himself to the country and its people rather than just the person sitting the Iron Throne. There were marches in the streets, even, calling his name over and over,” Tyrion says, still remembering those processions rather vividly, which only ever had him laugh at that point of time, by that time already kept the treasure chest Brienne gave into his care to give weight to his promise not to say it.

And he can still recall telling Brienne of it in private and how she laughed at it, too.

_If only they knew, if only they knew._

“So what?” Jaime asks again. “People shout all kinds of things in the streets. That doesn’t mean they are about to happen. If so, we wouldn’t have the Iron Throne in a long, long time.”

“ _So what?_ Jaime, if a mob of people starts to move, they can shake even the pillars of the Red Keep, they can shake the pillars of an empire. Robert’s Rebellion started out as something almost ironically small, and yet, he brought a dynasty to collapse with his Warhammer. Cersei has no allies. She’s seen to that she is at odds with every single one of them, not willing to make only one step towards the others. She has begrudging ceasefire with the Lords and Ladies of the Seven Kingdoms, but none would come to her aid if she were to be overthrown. The people could club her to death here in the streets, and the Lords and Ladies would likely even cheer for them. And our sister is well aware of that, believe me,” Tyrion points out to him.

“Which is why she sided with the Faith,” Jaime sighs.

And that even though Jaime warned her of the dangers, that they had them cast out from the city for good reason, but of course, the Queen did not listen to her Lord Commander, because the Queen does what the Queen desires, a lesson Jaime learned far too late as well.

“Yes. Cersei thought she would get the people under control if she offered alliance to the man proclaiming himself as their speaker. A smart move, I may add, even though it bore on great risk,” Tyrion ponders.

“So… are you trying to tell me that Cersei, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, was so afraid of a woman working as a tavern wench that she was willing to charge her with treason, then witchcraft – and me for treason by breaking my vows with her? If Cersei wanted Brienne dead, she would have done it. She may have had to send for more men because Brienne would have put up a fight, but this seems outrageous. She could have cast Brienne out. There is a hundred things Cersei could have done that would have been less risky than that which she chose to do eventually.”

“Cersei was afraid, that is all I can say to you, for her very own reasons. I don’t know what it is that drove her, or rather still drives her, but she saw something in Brienne that she thought was nothing but a threat to her personally that our sister had to get rid of _entirely_ ,” Tyrion answers. “That is without a doubt.”

“So you are trying to tell me that all of this happened because you let Cersei know of Brienne’s ancestry?” Jaime questions, because that still seems hard to believe, impossible to believe, even.

“… In… part,” the younger man answers, his voice trailing off.

“Tyrion,” the older man warns him.

“Fine, _fine_. Cersei, she… when she had me summoned, we started to converse about the country, and where to go with it. She expressed her worry for the future of the realm, of her reign. I thought she genuinely asked for my advice. Cersei said that she was suspicious of Lancel, for reasons she would never name at that time. She said that the Rock was abandoned because of the decisions you made and that she made… and that this made her even weaker in her position. Cersei spoke about how Robert never sired a child on her. That she had no heir… and I could see grief on her face and that is… when I saw my chance for a deal… and took it,” Tyrion admits, looking down.

“What deal did you propose?” Jaime wants to know.

“To name you heir, simple as that.” Tyrion shrugs.

“I was a man of the Queensguard,” Jaime argues, blinking.

_Me as Cersei’s heir? Just what did he drink to come to that conclusion? A knight with shit for honor, despised by all, as the successor to the Iron Throne? This is madness._

“And she is the Queen. Cersei could have changed the rules. She changed so many rules already that this seemed like a small deed. We even had good reason to present to the people, think about it. You might recall that Uncle Kevan died not long ago, and Lancel… he was young and inexperienced as a Lord of the Rock. You on the other hand? Father _raised_ you to be a Lord, until you went on to become a knight instead, much to his grievance. We even would have had a justified reason to say that you are the one most apt to continue House Lannister. Father was dead. Kevan was dead. I was a septon. Cersei was the Queen. And Lancel was _Lancel_. I told her that she should free you of your vows and make you Lord of Casterly Rock, so that you could ascend to the position in case something were to happen to her – if need be.”

“You might just as well have drawn a target on my back, you are aware of that?” Jaime grumbles.

“I was not that night. I honestly thought… I genuinely believed that she was asking for a solution to a problem she didn’t know how to solve. And in my drunken mind, I was happy to comply. I thought that you were the one thing Cersei wouldn’t dare touch. You are twins. At one point of time, even more than that connected you.”

“That was over before it ever began,” Jaime insists.

“I know, but I thought that it mattered to her, that _you_ mattered to her enough to see past her own thirst for power. I thought that _you_ she wouldn’t touch,” Tyrion argues. “I was mistaken about that, apparently.”

“Or so it seems,” Jaime sighs.

“The thing was… I thought this was for the best, for all of us.”

“All of us?” Jaime repeats with a grimace.

“Well, had you been granted the Rock, you could have taken me with you. I thought that Cersei would like that well enough, to finally rid herself of this annoying little pest that you kept on her mind no matter how much she loathed that little monkey. I thought that Cresei would be glad to get rid of me. And…,” Tyrion explains, his voice trailing off towards the end, so Jaime asks him again with more force, “ _And_?”

“… And I said that… then you could have taken Brienne along with you, and all would have been good and true. It was a sensible plan, Jaime. We could have played this wonderfully. You two at the Rock, two royal knights, a woman who was one of the people of Flea Bottom, a woman who was a descendant of Ser Duncan the Tall, a daughter of the Evenstar? The people wouldn’t have frowned upon us as much for that, even though she was working in a tavern in Flea Bottom, or rather, precisely because of it. She would have made us reconnect with the people. This is the stuff tales are made of.”

“You… you suggested to Cersei that I inherit the Rock – and that Brienne weds me,” Jaime says, gesturing around wildly.

_That can’t be, can it? Can it?_

“As I said, it made perfect sense,” Tyrion argues.

“ _What_ made perfect sense? Are you out of your mind, Tyrion? Brienne, she…,” Jaime mutters, his mouth suddenly going lax.

“I am a good observer, and I don’t think that this would have been far off what you would have wanted, my dear brother,” Tyrion argues.

 _Stubborn as a mule indeed_ , he thinks to himself. _Which would have made your union with Brienne a match made in the Seven Heavens, because you share in just that temperament._

Jaime shakes his head, snapping his jaws shut. Tyrion wouldn’t know what he is talking about in that regard, despite being oh so clever.

“Be it as it may, now I can at least imagine what drove Cersei mad. You just offered her a future that wasn’t hers. Because if she had named me heir, that would have made me King if Cersei were to come to pass before me,” Jaime sighs.

“And Brienne Queen,” Tyrion adds.

“You must have been truly a drunken fool to even suggest that.” The older man shakes his head. “Let alone think.”

“I honestly thought that she was looking for solutions, and I thought I was clever in suggesting one that meant that Cersei would rid herself of me. I thought our dear sister was concerned with nothing but her own reign, and that is what I offered. A strong alliance in the Westerlands, even all the way back to the Stormlands. A stronger base in the capitol, for the people may have come to like her, even, for having her own brother wed a woman of King’s Landing’s lowest, the successor of Ser Duncan the Tall, their local hero. I thought I was selling her an immediate future, and I thought that this was all she wanted. I believed that all our sister wanted was to sit the Throne until she died. It didn’t cross my mind that night that Cersei would feel threatened by a future that would have come past her own. I told her even that this would all be an alternative, in case she did not wed again and have children after all. I thought I was building a future,” Tyrion sighs.

_Even though I ended up destroying more than one._

“And why did you not mention that to me? To Brienne?” Jaime wants to know.

“I didn’t say anything to Brienne because I was afraid that she would never speak to me again for the betrayal. She made me swear it not to give herself away. And you… I didn’t even know how to tell you without betraying Brienne’s trust a second time. And then I said to myself that I am the cleverest man I know, so I should be able to find a solution even after you were thrown into prison, I thought… or tried to convince myself, I should rather say,” Tyrion admits feebly.

“So what did you do to outsmart our sister then?” Jaime questions.  

“I searched for evidence to prove your innocence. I went over the books to see how such a Trial by Faith was meant to go, which is why I suggested to you that you should demand that of Cersei, certain that you would win. I spent my time trying to undo my wrongs before they came to bloom, but the sad truth is that they burgeoned far too fast for me to rid us of them,” Tyrion says. “But then, short before you two were cursed, I thought I had it all figured out. Because I ran into Lancel, whom the Queen had just recently abandoned, getting drunk in my favorite tavern.”

“ _Lancel_? What would he have to do with it?” Jaime frowns.

“Oh, you know, since I saw how that worked with Brienne… I dared to make him confess to me while he was drunk…,” Tyrion replies.

“You have to be joking,” Jaime huffs.

“I am afraid I am not, but it was fruitful nonetheless. I thought I had just found the shred of evidence that it took to counter that shred of a sheet that they used against you and Brienne,” Tyrion explains.

“And what would that have been?” Jaime wants to know.

“An immediate threat to her regency right at this moment, rather than in the faraway future.”

Jaime cranes his neck. “What did Lancel confess to you?”

“That he wanted to be like you, and followed you on all the… not so good steps, of which one was at least noble on your side, but not on his,” Tyrion replies. “Cersei seduced our dear coz to make him do her biddings.”

Jaime’s mouth stands wide open at that, blinking. “She…”

“She did, yes. So that when the time came, he could give Robert from a special wineskin that didn’t really have wine in it. And the boar then did the rest.”

“She conspired with Lancel to kill Robert,” Jaime mutters, still trying to wrap his head around that matter. While he came to see that Cersei may have had her own ambitions in pursuing what they had for a while, Jaime still dared to think that this was just between the two of them, but that she would do such a thing a second time only to see Robert removed? Jaime didn’t see it coming, not at all.

“To him, Cersei said that Robert was violent and that she felt threatened. And we both know that there may have been more truth to it than not,” Tyrion comments with a grimace – because the simple truth about King Robert was that he was a whoring bastard who was not kind to his wife, for which a small part of Tyrion came to loathe him, even though he loathed this woman all the same.

But that’s what family seems to do with you – it makes you hate whoever dares to hurt it, though as of late it seems that family can hurt family, which means that you can come to loathe them truthfully after all.

“However, Cersei made it sound _much_ more dramatic, as far as he told me. That her life was in danger now, because _oh_ , what if Robert were to find out about her _true love_ for our dear coz? _Robert would kill us both, Lancel, my darling, don’t you see? Oh, I need you to protect me, to protect us, our love!_ And to make this bloody well perfect, Cersei had him swap Robert’s last will against one she passed off as his. The Queen surely had little trouble getting the King’s seal. And so, as Robert was brought into the crypts, Cersei Lannister was proclaimed as his one true heir in the stead of Renly or Stannis – and she just had to watch the two rivaling brothers tear each other apart without much of her own doing. I have to give our sister that much, it was a marvelously cruel plan. Lancel, or so she thought, would not speak of it, or else he would have been charged for the same crimes as she. And those, yes, would have meant their deaths. Well, for that our sister is as fond of arbor as I am, she underestimated its powers when it came to our dear coz, however.”

“So… when you came to me that one time…,” Jaime mutters, and Tyrion nods his head in agreement. “I thought that all I had to do was to confront Cersei with the evidence and threaten to expose her. I would have made a deal with the devil a second time to have her keep her precious crown so long she would let you and Brienne walk free of charge, but then Lancel was gone all of a sudden – and the Faith had him in their clutches.”

“He is a Sparrow now?” Jaime asks.

“So I heard,” Tyrion answers. “And that meant that I suddenly stood there with nothing all over – and before I could even attempt to make the charges against her known, raise my voice, maybe get some people on my side, you two were cursed, which was something even Lancel’s testimony would not have solved. And that was when I realized by far too late that I should have involved you into all of this sooner. But you were so overtaken with your grief that I barely got out the words when I saw you. And then… you told me to stay away forever – and I know you meant it.”

Jaime buries his face in his hands. “Seven Hells.”

He knew he had been blind to some many things, especially with regards to Cersei, but Jaime didn’t know of any of this, which makes him wonder if there ever was a way for him to do things right, considering that he failed on so many occasions already.

“I thought I was one step ahead, but she was three steps ahead by that time already. I will admit it, I underestimated both our sister’s ability and her wickedness. I didn’t think Cersei would do that to you. I didn’t think she would go as far as to harm you. I thought our sister meant to teach you a lesson of loyalty, and how you were hers. And I thought that she had you two imprisoned to strike _me_ foremost. To show me my place in the world. But it seems that her spite for all of us exceeds any measure I found possible.”

“Why didn’t you just say it?” Jaime sighs.

“I didn’t find the words.”

“ _Right_ ,” the older man scoffs.

“I _mean_ it. I knew that I had gotten you into this situation. I wanted to make things right. I wanted to get back to where it was before I spilled the secrets, wove a cobweb and got caught in it myself. I saw you two suffer enough, more than anyone should bear, in fact. Brienne got beaten, was humiliated, so that she would break, though she did not, and you… you were catatonic in that tower. And then… the worst that could happen… happened in that they had you and I believe that Brienne was dead. And I knew that this was the one thing for which I would never get forgiveness from you.”

Jaime says nothing, just shakes his head.

“I thought I was creating a future for us, but it seems that all I managed was to annihilate the one that would have been within reach,” Tyrion goes on, his voice heavy with sorrow. “I wanted too much, because it was my own joy that I saw fulfilled in going with you to the Rock, being by your side, by Brienne’s. I thought I was solving all problems in one mighty strike… only to create a thousand more, of which each was much severer than the original one.”

“And now there is no future anymore,” Jaime mutters solemnly.

“But there _is_.”

“I would even give you that much of doubt to my own predictions if it was just a potion we had to drink or wash our faces with, as it happened with me when I was cursed,” Jaime argues, still cursing himself for having taken that bowl believing it no more than water. “But you make it sound like Cersei and the High Sparrow having to lay eyes upon us as man and woman is the one thing we can’t bear without.”

“That is clearly stated in the scriptures I found. The High Sparrow likely didn’t even have his part in the witchcraft, but Cersei and her precious Qyburn surely did. The sorcery he used relies on a blood sacrifice from the person who wishes to curse, and that was Cersei. Which means that she has to see you two, as man and woman, to break the curse at last, because what she cursed you with was the exact opposite, that you shall never see each other in the flesh again.”

“Tyrion, even if your wondrous magic trick that you found in some dusty book were true, you’d be a fool to think that Cersei would let us stride into the Sept to break the curse and then just surrender to a former Lord Commander with shit for a right hand and a woman who fancies armors more than dresses. The one thing we can change is that we get to reveal the truth, but the cost for that is our lives. I see no alternative to that,” Jaime argues, shaking his head.

“But I see it. We just have to handle this the right way. And truly, what do you have to lose, Jaime? What do you have to lose, going in there with the hope that the curse will be broken – and that we can still all walk away from this alive? That there is a future for you, for her? What is it that you are afraid of?”

“I am not afraid of anything,” Jaime replies doggishly, gritting his teeth. “Except for that one thing…”

“Which is?” Tyrion asks quietly, noting the desperate tone towards the end.

“To see her one more time and then see her die,” Jaime says, voice shaking, voice failing, voice breaking, but then looking to the side with glistening eyes. “I know what it did to me last time. And last time… Brienne wasn’t even dead. I thought it true, though. And it tore me apart.”

Just like it tore him apart to see Brienne after they had been thrown into different prison cells for the first time.

It tore him apart, every bruise on her freckled face, her arms, her legs.

Every cut, every small blemish that was no faded scar from her self-chosen struggles, it tore him apart.

How they dragged Brienne in, head shorn in preparation for a Walk of Atonement she was never meant to undertake, as Jaime figured far too late, as Qyburn, the oh so clever man, got to him despite his suspicion. Because Jaime drank nothing they gave him, only ever the raindrops he gathered by putting bowls on the windowsills. He took no food from them, not willing to consume. But he had washed his hands in a bowl that was brought to his room, his fingers bloody from where he scratched at the doors like an animal he was yet to become. And it didn’t occur to him that this little bowl likely passed through the hands of Cersei’s wicked maester without chains.

And that tore him apart as well.

It tore something to pieces inside Jaime that he thought was fixed as he saw the cuts from the razor, the gag they had put in her mouth so that she could not warn him, could not speak.

His heart kept falling apart that night, and it seemed to just become shredded misery once Cersei told him that Brienne had been executed for witchcraft.

It was a fear he had never known.

A pain he had never suffered.

And Jaime is afraid of suffering it a second time, even more so to think that he would have to look Brienne right in her beautiful blue eyes before life is to leave her. Then he rather bids farewell to a bird and hopes for the best that she can take flight after all, and even if not, choose her end to her conditions, and he will not have to suffer through seeing it being done.

“It tore me to pieces to know her dead. And I don’t know what it would do to me to see her die before my eyes. Or that Cersei gets to go on with her torment as she pleases because I am no longer there to protect her. I think it would be a grief that would ring all the way into the afterlife.”

Tyrion would want to say something smart, but he finds no words to speak, so instead he slowly, cautiously, reaches out his hand to tap the taller man’s side – because yes, it is time to speak with the heart, and the heart does not need words at times, but gestures all the same, however small.

“I am sorry, for all of it,” the younger man whispers.

“I know. I am sorry, too – for failing to protect you both time and time again,” Jaime mutters.

“But maybe we can make things right this time around.”

“But how is it supposed to work, Tyrion? Have you not listened to a word I just said? Just because you read it in a book doesn’t make it true. This might be a children’s story that was passed on and then became a legend, a myth, only to be mistaken for a magic trick,” Jaime argues, if only to convince himself. “Who knows what it is that turns us? Maybe it’s the light the sun and the moon emit? Perchance it is the planets themselves? And if that were so, how would there ever be a way for this to work? The sun and the moon don’t ever disappear. They keep running their circles around the sky endlessly.”

“If I stand correct, it is the sun’s and moon’s constant dance of meeting without touching that is your very condition,” Tyrion answers. “And if I am further right in my predictions, then the solar eclipse that is about to happen will do the impossible, in that this is when sun and moon are on the same plane, aligned, instead of missing each other every night and every day anew.”

“But how do you know?” the older man questions.

“We could make a test, you see?” Tyrion suggests with a shrug of his shoulders.

“A test?” Jaime repeats.

“Yes! To show you that this works, because I am sure it will, I am so very sure, Jaime!”

The older man gives him a look, so Tyrion corrects himself, “Fine, I think I have good reason to think that I am sure.”

“Then what would we need for such a test?” Jaime asks.

“You give me this one night and the next morning,” Tyrion bargains. “Beside that, we don’t need much. Just a sword, the two of you, and a hole.”

Jaime makes a face. “A hole?”

“You will have to put a bit of faith in me, I am afraid,” Tyrion says, before adding feebly, “a bit of trust.”

“However fragile it may be?”

“However fragile it may be, yes,” the younger brother agrees.

“I don’t have much to lose anyway,” Jaime sighs, looking up. “It’s just a night.”

“And a bit of day,” Tyrion agrees.

“You can come out now, little wolf!” Jaime calls out, waving towards the tree line from which he came. “I can hear Brienne moving her wings all the way to here.”

“Just testing the waters,” Arya says as she hops down the rest of the hill, Brienne taking flight from her shoulder in the same moment before taking back her position on Jaime’s shoulder.

“Sooner or later you are bound to return to me, huh?” Jaime says with a small smile, brushing the fingers of his free hand over her feathers. “Too loyal for your own good after all, aren’t you, wench?”

“So? What’s the plan now?” Arya asks as she approaches.

“Tyrion said we have to dig a hole.”

“You mean that you are digging a hole.”

“I have shit for a right hand.”

“I am a little girl.”

“Only when it’s convenient for you, little wolf.”

“I am dwarf.”

“I stand by my statement with regards to you all the same. You are both utterly useless.”

“You should get digging – though I still want to know why we would have to dig a hole?” She looks at Tyrion questioningly.

“We will bend the light a bit, to mess with the order of things,” Tyrion says with a smile. “But fret not, Jaime, I brought a shovel.”

“It’d seem to me that you planned this well in advance,” the older man grumbles.

“I came prepared, as I should. Because this time… I can’t afford to lose.”

* * *

 

_Queen you shall be, until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear._

_Queen you shall be, until there comes another, younger and more beautiful._

_Queen you shall be, until there comes another._

_Queen you shall be._

_You shall be Queen._

_You are Queen._

_The Queen._

_Queen!_

“Your Grace?” Qyburn’s voice rings out, pulling Cersei out of her thoughts mingled with memories painted black and red, to the top of the stairs leading down to his laboratory, a courtesy of the Crown for his loyal service and confidentiality.

_A small price to pay, after Grandmaester Pycelle had that horrid… **accident** short time after Robert passed away from an even more horrid **accident** , it was empty anyway. _

And what a shame it would have been to let the chamber go unused, after the blood was removed from the tiles.

_He fell on those small knives **so** many times. _

“It is a rare occurrence that you come to see me here,” Qyburn notes, his gray eyes lingering on the Queen as she closes the door behind her, lifts her black skirt and starts to proceed down the stairs.

In the private moments, the Queen allows the wickedly clever man to leave the courtesy of bowing to her aside, so long Qyburn keeps his hands busy on the matters she wishes to see done, which is why she lets him walk about his laboratory cast in the shadows of the Red Keep, carrying potions, books, flesh, and skin back and forth as he pleases.

 _A good catch_ , the Queen thinks to herself with a pleased smile briefly washing over her face. She found him rotting away at Harrenhal, or rather, had him be found and brought to the capitol, a man whose appetite she could easily allay in exchange for his silence and loyalty.

While Cersei is aware that the man only ever follows her because she provides him with what he desires most, she finds that the truest kind of service, because it leaves no questions open – she wants something, he wants something, she has something that he wants, he has something that she wants.

 _And there are enough whorehouses to fetch from to make sure my Hand does not starve_ , Cersei ponders. _Or whatever roams in the pits down Flea Bottom. One or two people at a time are hardly amiss in the city. Most will not even know them gone. So long he is pleased with the yield, he will keep my secrets – and carry out what I want of him._

After all, that is all Cersei wants of her servants, all a ruler should want anyway, in her opinion. Royals are far too often fooled by their attachments, believing that friendship and family can keep them in power.

It is what annihilates power.

_Because only power is power._

“In times as these, I think there are some many things bound to happen that are unexpected,” Cersei answers as she reaches the bottom of the stairs. She folds her hands in front of her before walking up to the maester without chains, though the pin of Lord Hand should well cover up for the lack thereof.

“I take from it that no good news came from the quest,” Qyburn notes, busy pouring red liquid from one vial into the other, his bony hands, as always, perfectly still, without the slightest hint of a tremor.

“No, a bird flew here this morning, whereby the men of my guard whom I had sent out to bring me our two troublemakers informed me that they got overpowered by this wretched beast of a woman and that monster sharing my own blood,” Cersei says, her eyes narrowing at the thought.

When she read the message, she tore it into pieces at once before casting it into the flames in her chamber. Cersei was aware that the Queensguard had suffered for the loss of their most able former Lord Commander, as Meryn Trant is a Queensguard knight in name far more than in ability, yet, she had dared to hope that a good dozen of her best men would suffice to bring down a mannish woman, a dwarf, and a small boy, for all she heard.

However, that seems to be the issue with having to make a purchase for every act of trust or service – you often end up buying the confidence of those who lack the abilities to see your wishes being carried out.

“That is unfortunate, of course,” Qyburn says, shaking the vial in his hand, until the red liquid turns pitch black.

“One could say so,” Cersei agrees.

“Any news of that hunter yet?”

“No, I was expecting a bird from him at some point, but no news yet. I would like to hope that he is thus still in the game, but I am afraid I cannot rely on that anymore, looking at the fact that the Queensguard keeps failing miserably.”

“Well, so long we have no message, we cannot rule it out.”

“Though I am afraid that this means I will have to delay that matter until after that festivity in the Sept is handled. I rather would have seen that being done beforehand,” Cersei sighs. “The High Sparrow is suspicious enough. And I wouldn’t want him to question me so short before we celebrate the Mother.”

In fact, Cersei would have liked to report to the High Sparrow that this affair was finally taken care of. It didn’t go unnoticed by the Queen that the man was even more suspicious towards her than he is in general.

After all, he is a clever man, she will have to give him that much.

However, the bond of trust has always been fragile between the two, as both have more to gain and potentially more to give than they are willing to admit to one another, and the fact that it was revealed to the High Sparrow that the wretched beast and the man he grew to be scared of was more than unfortunate.

The Queen rather would have left the man in wonderful oblivion about those matters, but it can’t be helped now.

The one comfort she has is that once things go the way she has them planned, the High Sparrow won’t complain for long anymore.

Just like it was with dear Melara after her _unfortunate_ fall down the well, who shut her mouth rather promptly at last.

“Well, I can’t imagine that he will miss out on the opportunity to attend the celebration of the Mother,” Qyburn argues calmly. “A man of the Faith would have to come up with a very good excuse as to why he would miss out on this most holy day.”

“Which is why I think we do wise not to fret at this point of time. Nevertheless, it’s something we ought to bear in mind,” Cersei points out.

“Is that the only reason why you sought me out, Your Grace?”

“No, I am here to see about whether you are keeping your promises to me.”

“I am always there to please Your Grace. The little birds have been diligent, I may report. I took the liberty to see about the crypts myself alongside some of your men to make sure that everything is in place.”

“What a fortunate find that was for us,” Cersei says, her face unmoving.

“As I said, I am always here to please Your Grace and see about it that your wishes are fulfilled.”

“For which I hope you find yourself sufficiently rewarded.”

“I can’t complain.”

“That still doesn’t answer the question of whether you kept your promise to me. You keep saying that you will finish in due time, but I have yet to see any kind of result.”

“Well, if Your Grace insists…,” Qyburn says, putting the vials down, gesturing at her to follow him. “I may warn you, it’s been rather wild these past few days, here at my laboratory. Quite resistant.”

“From which I take that you seem rather certain that things will be ready for the celebration of the Mother?”

“See for yourself,” the man answers, moving aside.

Cersei takes a step back when an inhuman roar rips through the room, shaking the ground. The Queen lets out a shuddered breath as her eyes fix on the wooden table upon which the experiment is attached with leather straps and iron cuffs, which are screaming under the force with which the test subject means to rip them apart.

“As I said, quite resistant,” the maester says in an easy voice, stepping closer to his most favored creation, or rather re-creation. “Easy now, it’s not time yet.”

He turns back around to the Queen still standing a bit further away. “Your Grace?”

“This is quite… unexpected, I will admit.”

“As you said, it’s times where a lot of the unexpected seems to occur.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” the Queen speaks, stepping closer, her green eyes fixed on the writhing, thrashing thing, the breath catching in her throat. “I mean that he is more than I ever expected.”

A smile fades across her lips as bolts of excitement shoot from the tips of her hair to the tips of her toes, the sensation settling deep in her core, spreading warmth in her where normally cold resides these days.

“I am glad that you are satisfied with the result thus far, Your Grace. The armor is almost done. We wouldn’t want to miss out on a chance to properly announce him.”

“No, he deserves all honors,” Cersei agrees, biting her lower lip. “As do you, for keeping true to your promises, my dear friend.”

“I am always glad to be at your service, Your Grace,” the maester argues, though Cersei knows he only means half of it, but it doesn’t concern her. She will give him an entire orphanage for his efforts, so long he keeps up the work without relent and without asking too many bothersome questions.

“Well, perchance we are not as ill prepared as the letter had me believe for a second,” Cersei says, letting out a long breath, finding herself more and more at ease. Even when the man meant to never disappoint her again writhes and struggles against his constraints, the Queen does not even flinch anymore.

“Because I can’t afford to lose.”

“And I think you won’t, Your Grace.”

“He will make certain of that,” Cersei says, looking at her new strong arm, after she lost one to false loyalty, to a man she thought she could trust, whom she thought would never dare abandon her.

Even less so for such a creature.

However, it should make no difference anymore, the Queen reminds herself as her eyes remain fixed on the gatekeeper towards the future she wants to see happening, the future that is to happen, because she commands it.

Tyrion shall be damned, she thinks to herself. My future is mine, and if Jaime wouldn’t make sure of it, he will do it.

And that without asking for anything in exchange, which will be the purest form of loyalty Cersei thinks she can acquire, even purer than the one she shares with her clever maester, because this experiment helped prove that it is possible to strip a human bare of all his desires, until there remains just one, to serve his Queen.

“We will not lose.”

_Queen I shall be._

_I shall be Queen._

_I am Queen._

_The Queen._

_Queen!_

* * *

 

“You know, sun’s already started to set, so you may want to hurry up just a bit,” Arya snickers, sitting on a tree branch, dangling her short legs back and forth as she watches the reluctant knight heave shovelful after shovelful out of the thankfully rather soft earth of the hillside. They chose a place more secluded, so not to attract any unexpected visitors, and apparently one that has “just the right angle” according to Tyrion, who was almost too excited in Arya’s opinion, wriggling around strange instruments she has never seen before as though they were the world’s treasure.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you are a miserable pain in the arse?” Jaime retorts.

“I think you did a number of times.”

“Which means that, on this matter, I stand correct,” Jaime huffs, letting out a sigh as he tosses another heap of dirt on the pile that just seems to grow exponentially, while the hole just won’t become deep enough.

“Oh well, after Lady Brienne and I already defeated the hunter and the Queensguard at the septry, it seems only fair to me that you would get to work a bit as well, for matters of fairness,” Arya teases.

“I seem to recall that, not long ago, I saved the little arse of a girl two times as a man and one time as a wolf. I even come to recall suffering this as a result of her folly,” Jaime says, pointing to the bandage around his right arm from the cut he received after he and Brienne came after Arya following her not so swift escape.

The young girl curls her lips into a displeased frown, wrinkling her pointy nose. “I apologized for that already. And you take the fun out of things anyway. I was just jesting.”

“In case you didn’t notice, I am jesting, too,” Jaime huffs. “I have sustained far worse than this. It’s all but a scratch to me. And anyway, as I told Brienne before, I have a history of rescuing maidens, sometimes from towers, sometimes from the Queensguard chasing her, believing her a little thief from Flea Bottom.”

“I would like to say that you didn’t rescue me, but that is what you did, so fine,” Arya huffs, to which Jaime only ever chuckles softly.

“Care to remind me what Tyrion is up to again? I though he wanted to be of help, yet, he is the one keeping away from the tedious task of digging a hole altogether,” Jaime says, wiping sweat from his brow with his arm.

“He is fighting with the mule,” Arya answers. “The thing wouldn’t move just an inch to come anywhere near close that part of the woods.”

“Well, isn’t that sweet? That makes digging almost joyful,” Jaime snorts with a grin tugging at his lips.

“Why don’t you want to know the secret?” Arya blurts out questioning, well aware that you do best catching the man off-guard.

“Why would I? Brienne didn’t tell me. She will have had her reasons for it,” Jaime replies, digging faster this time.

“Well, now she can no longer change her mind and tell you, can she?” Arya points out to him.

“Did she tell you to let me know? Did she give you the task?” Jaime asks, to which the young girl is bound to say, “No.”

“Then she is building on your confidence, and you would likely disappoint her for breaking it,” Jaime concludes. “Enough people have betrayed that trust in my opinion.”

“I just don’t see the sense in it,” Arya laments, because she can see the man’s reluctance, that even if he is digging a hole, there is something holding him back from truly committing himself to the task. She saw Jaime’s determination before, and his reaction right at this moment is different from what she saw when he put her on Honor’s back and told her to ride to the septry to save Brienne. It’s something else from when he just dashed right into battle to save her.

“That is not up to you to say,” Jaime argues.

“I am just not sure whether you actually want to follow through with this, or just play along,” the brunette then points out.

“What is it to you even if it were so?” the older man questions, not bothering to look her in the eye, instead busying himself with shoveling a deeper and deeper hole, as though to hide himself within.

“Because then all of this is for nothing and nothing again.”

“This here, in all likability, will be for nothing and nothing again. And at some point I am not even sure whether that is what I want,” Jaime answers, surprising himself with his own truthfulness. Normally, he does well to conceal his worries, but then again, this may be owed to the fact that Jaime is still convinced that his life is drawing to a close. Then you get to lose composure every now and then.

Arya makes a face. “You don’t want to break the curse?”

“I don’t see the sense in breaking the curse, only just to end up getting killed. Then I rather focus my efforts on seeing the truth being spoken, and perchance take down the three who have given us all that grief,” Jaime answers, to which the young girl only ever rolls her eyes. “Not that again.”

“You asked,” Jaime huffs. “And anyway… I have my own hope of which Brienne does not yet know, and couldn’t ever know because they turned up only after we found ourselves caught up in our condition.”

Arya tilts her head to the side. “And what would that be?”

Jaime straightens up and leans on the end of the shovel, sucking in a deep breath. “Well, I will fall in that sept, for all I can judge. And at some point… I almost hope Brienne will stay a hawk for just that day.”

“Why?”

“Brienne was clear on that she would mean to fight as well, whatever it took, so that we would… go down alongside each other, but… a part of me would like to think that a bird can fly away and start over new elsewhere. And if there is a way to break the curse after all… then hope would remain the same, but I see it far more threatened because I know that Cersei will not show mercy. If she just ran away… Brienne may live half a life at least, without having to spend it limited to the steps a wolf travels,” Jaime explains.

The words Tyrion spoke have resonated in him since, as the little septon told him that he had to listen with his heart, which is what he did, no matter the pain that caused in turn. Brienne had a chance of living a good life, had she revealed her parentage to find herself a suitable man. Without Roelle, Brienne would have been in the position to choose instead of having the decision being made for her. And yet, she did not – and Gods know why. Which has Jaime think or want to believe that there is a way for her to shine her light elsewhere after all.

Because it would spare him the pain of suffering his worst fear while it would grant the one person Jaime wants to feel happiness in her heart again, for all the light she spread in his life unknowingly, a way out of this, away from him if need be.

“You want Lady Brienne to go on living without you,” Arya says with a sad grimace.

“And Brienne won’t have a chance to do just that if she exposes herself. It’s unlikely anyway. I think she won’t back down. The wench is too stubborn for that. But that doesn’t stop me from hoping that she will anyway. That doesn’t stop me from my wish to offer her a chance, at least,” Jaime argues, biting on his lower lip. “Brienne had all choice taken away from her thanks to that bloody curse, but she will have even fewer of them if she were in the Sept with me. Then there are just two choices open to her: We die and take the people responsible with us, a clean death, or we die and the three get to live on – and Gods know what they would do with us if given the chance, a clean death most certainly not. If she isn’t there… then there is at least a chance that she will live on, out of sight, out of danger.”

High in the clouds, far out of anyone’s reach, free.

“Then why are you digging that hole?” Arya can’t help but ask.

“Because I am a slow learner,” Jaime answers, heaving up another shovelful of dirt. “And the one thing this here promises is that I get to see Brienne without the threat of a blade at our throats straight away. For that, digging a hole is a small price to pay.”

“For that, you lament a lot about it,” Arya huffs.

“It can never harm to make one’s discontent known,” Jaime answers, pushing up from the shovel to ram it back into the earth again.

Sometimes you have to make feelings known, because the ones that count? Most of us are far too used to hide them away that we all can’t help but hide them away in treasure chests, for no one to see, for no one to hear.

Until it is too late.

* * *

 

As night creeps its way past canopy, boughs, and shrubs, Jaime goes through the motions of his routines yet again, knowing that he has to cherish them so long they last. He claps Honor on the side as he gives the horse another apple to eat before turning towards Arya and Tyrion, who have spent quite some time filling up the hole with fir branches to make it “a bit more comfortable” for when the moment arises.

 ** _If_** _the moment arises_ , Jaime thinks to himself, because the past has taught him more than painfully that except for very few things, he ought to be skeptical of almost anything. The one thing that Jaime will always be certain about is Brienne’s honor.

“Alright, I should be on my way, then,” Jaime says with a grimace as he straightens up, focusing his attention on the young girl. “You know where to find Oathkeeper, but if I catch you messing with it, there will be punishment in place.”

“That was one time,” Arya pouts.

“And that is one time too many already,” Jaime huffs, before turning around to Tyrion. “I don’t know how far the wolf will go. Brienne has best chances of finding him, I suppose. He is more accustomed to her than to any of you. He doesn’t like strangers.”

“We could still put you on a leash,” Tyrion ponders with a careful kind of grin, not yet daring to sink back into the kind of conversation he used to have with his brother when he was just a man of the Kingsguard, then Queensguard, and he was just a lordling, then septon.

“If you want to find a quick end, then certainly, we can do just that,” Jaime answers. “This wolf is not keen on keeping in chains.”

_And that may be something I share in with this beast after all._

Tyrion holds up his hands. “It was merely a suggestion.”

“The wolf will find his way, I am sure,” Jaime concludes, and with that, he walks off, soon disappearing into the shadows dancing across the forest ground to the rhythm of the boughs and leaves swinging in the light breeze of a mild evening following a night filled with terror and merciless rain.

“Those two are hopelessly hopeful cases,” Arya comments, her eyes still fixed on the spot where she last saw Jaime before the shadows readily devoured him to spit him out as a wolf on the other side.

“Well, we still have to see whether our hope is justified,” Tyrion comments with a grimace.

“Tonight is going to reveal it, huh?” Arya sighs.

“In all likability, yes,” the older man agrees.

* * *

 

“… A hole. A hole is the solution to all our problems,” Brienne repeats disbelievingly, still trying to wrap her head around all the new information she just got as Tyrion and Arya almost jumped over each other in an attempt to be the first ones to say it, and that even though Brienne still has to come to grips with the fact that Tyrion travelled all the way to here and that Jaime apparently permitted it.

However, that is part of her condition, too, always being on the receiving end of destiny, having to await it until her time rises alongside the moon.

“No, far from it. I wished it was that easy, but it’s a much more complicated matter. It’s about how sun and moon align, stealing each other’s light. But we can thieve a few moments, if we do this right, so that you see the light of day a bit longer, whereas the light of the moon will fade from Jaime’s skin for a few more seconds. In that fraction we thereby create, you two can be man and woman again,” Tyrion explains.

“And Jaime found this a good idea?” Brienne asks, not quite ready to believe that he would, for that she knows the man she spends half a life with all too well by now.

“Well, he dug the hole,” Arya points out, nodding at it.

“He dug the hole,” Tyrion parrots, nodding his head repeatedly.

“You can stop echoing each other. I well understood you the first time,” Brienne grumbles. “Though neither one of you yet succeeded to explain to me how we are meant to walk out of the Sept alive, granted that when Cersei sees us, she will mean for us to die, no matter whether the curse remains or is indeed broken.”

“Well, if Arya can open the doors from within to let Jaime and you inside, you can already shout it as you come in,” Tyrion suggests, which has Brienne only ever frown at the man in utter disbelief. “ _That_ is your plan?”

“No, but the Sept presents a limited space. There are commoners in there who will likely not throw themselves against two knights striding in. In fact, we have the one advantage of having surprise on our side,” Tyrion argues.

“And so they may be surprised, but once we make towards the Queen and the High Sparrow, there will be the Queensguard. And the Sparrows,” Brienne points out. “And they won’t hesitate.”

“And you can defeat them.”

Brienne cocks an eyebrow at him. “Defeat them?”

“You beat them with a rusty kitchen knife. Imagine what you and Jaime can do together,” Tyrion chimes.

“I very well recall what we could do together when they took us into custody,” Brienne argues. “The Queensguard may no longer be as formidable as it once was, but they have us outnumbered nonetheless. And in the end, twenty swords will mean more than just two.”

“But you have one of Valyrian steel,” Arya points out, nodding at Oahtkeeper, which Brienne instantly took up once she came to camp after she got changed.

“And while it’s a most formidable blade, it will not put us both at perfect advantage against so many men,” Brienne insists.

“You shouldn’t dread about that as of now, Brienne,” Tyrion argues. “After all, you two aren’t even convinced yet that any of this is meant to work, aye?”

“True again,” Brienne sighs, shaking her head, but then turns it around when a howl rips through the woods. “He went farther than I expected.”

She gets up, dusting off her breeches in the same motion. “I will fetch him, then.”

“Maybe you should have trained him more,” Tyrion teases.

“I would have no intention to,” Brienne argues with more sincerity in her voice. “All beasts are free. I have to believe that, or else I never would have gotten out of that cage.”

“I am coming with you,” Arya announces. “You can glower at me all you want – I was of aid last night against the hounds. And we both know that I will come with anyway, regardless of what you may say.”

Brienne grimaces when Tyrion gets to his feet as well. “You, too?”

“I may not be a hunter, but I am a clever man, cleverer than a wolf most certainly. And I wouldn’t fancy staying here all alone.”

The tall woman says nothing, just tightens her grip around Oathkeeper and starts to walk in direction of where the noises came from. Though Brienne can’t say why she has such an unsettling feeling in the pit of her stomach as they go on.

Normally, the wolf will keep at a certain distance, far away enough from villages most of the time, but always close enough, as though to watch out for her. While she is one of the few the wolf grants touch and guidance on her behalf, Brienne is well aware that he is different from her in her bird shape, an animal seemingly far easier to control, but you cannot control a wolf. She accepted that and never made attempts of taming him, reckoning that if she has the freedom to fly as a bird, the wolf should have the freedom to prey however he pleases, so long it doesn’t cause them any danger. However, moving through the woods now has her think that something is not the way it ought to be.

_But then again, what in this mad world is actually how it is meant to be?_

A yelp has the three turn their heads abruptly.

“Jaime,” Brienne whispers, her senses seemingly not having fooled her after all.

“He can’t have stepped on another trap. We got them all,” Arya mutters. She made sure of that another time during the day, occasionally going about while Jaime dug his hole to see that there was no more threatening silver on the ground.

Brienne just walks ahead until they come to the side of the hill, quick in her steps, frantic in her breaths, anxious in her heart, but stoic on her face, so not to let it show what wars are constantly raging inside her mannish body.

She stops abruptly in her steps, Arya and Tyrion almost bumping into her as a result. The young girl already means to comment, but that is when she sees what had Brienne stop in her tracks all of a sudden.

“Not all, it seems,” Brienne says, looking down another hole, far deeper if far narrower. “It appears the hunter left us one more surprise.”

“The bastard, legitimized bastard, but bastard no less. Even after he died he gives us trouble,” Arya curses, balling her fists, almost feeling better at the idea that he found his end at the tip of the sharp teeth of his precious dogs.

“Had I known, I would have spared Jaime digging a hole,” Tyrion comments, but then jumps back when golden eyes glower at him from inside the hole, followed by a bark, a growl, and then a snarl.

The tall woman is already on her knees, her eyes fixed on the wolf pacing tiny circles around itself, baring his teeth out of sheer agitation and nervousness at the tightness of the space. While the wolf is never quite tame, he tends to be calmer once he sets his golden eyes on her, but right at this moment, the beast is calling within him, loudly so, desperately so, which is why the wolf is far too preoccupied with scratching at the walls to get out somehow to look her in the eye to find something calming in the blue of those orbs.

“Easy,” Brienne mutters as she bends down further, holding out her hand to the wolf, but the animal just goes on pacing, keeping out of her reach.

“Stubborn coot. We are trying to help,” Arya laments.

“Hold my legs,” Brienne then demands, already bending over the edge so that Tyrion and Arya have no choice but to comply. The tall woman holds out a piece of dried meat to the wolf to lure him closer, out of his small corner in which he keeps cowering, which thankfully seems to get his attention as she can see the animal’s nostrils flaring once he catches the scent.

The wolf unfolds himself slowly, cautiously, the corner, scratching against the walls, seemingly still about as tempting as the smell of dried meat.

“Come to me now,” Brienne says in a soft voice, making sure to keep her eyes on his at all times, to catch him with hers the way she has done it some many times before.

 _Stay with me_ , she only ever says to herself.

Brienne nudges forward even further. She knows that she will have to grab him and pull him up at once, even at the risk of the animal lashing out at her in turn, but she will bear those scars with pride, like any blemish she bears on her body that served the protection of the people she cares most about in life.

“Careful, we can’t have you fall in as well,” Arya grunts, holding on to the woman’s legs the best she can.

“It’s alright,” Brienne says to the wolf, her eyes lingering on the animal at all times, feeling as though she dared to look away, he would retreat even further into the beast and less in the man hidden deep within.

When the wolf starts to eat the dry meat from her hand at last, Brienne is quick to seize the moment and grabs the animal by the neck, even though the wolf instantly starts thrashing to get free from her grip. Nevertheless, Brienne holds on, only ever yelling at Tyrion and Arya to pull her back, which the two do to the best of their abilities.

“Easy now, easy,” Brienne keeps muttering over and over as she tries to push back herself to finally get the two of them over the edge. Brienne knows that normally, she ought to keep a bit of distance. While the wolf trusts her, he is easily frightened, especially when he feels backed up in a corner.

If Brienne didn’t know any better, she would account that already to Jaime shining through the golden eyes of the majestic predator, who surely must be all too painfully reminded of being locked in the tower.

However, now is not the time to keep her distance, now is not the time to be cautious. There is just one direction – ahead.

If what Tyrion says is true, this may be one of her last chances to ever lay eyes upon Jaime again, and even though she remains weary of the hope Tyrion and Arya put in a plan that is not even a plan, Brienne would give so very much, if only to see Jaime one more time before they make the final step, write the last line to their most solemn tale.

Because that pound of flesh beating without relent, for all its strength, is also frail, is fragile from longing and sorrow and pain.

A weak heart beating strong, longing and craving more than is likely for its own good, if only for one more glimpse at him, if only for a fraction in time.

“Damn, that wolf is heavy!” Tyrion grunts as he rams his heels into the soft soil to somehow gain leverage. “Couldn’t you have both been made hawks?”

“Just pull already!” Arya barks.

“That’s what I am doing anyway!” Tyrion retorts, his voice strained.

However, at last, Brienne can gain some solid ground herself. Thus, she strains her back to heave the wolf over the edge, holding on as tight as she can as she rolls herself back as well.

To her surprise, though, there are no bites or scratches. Instead, the wolf just whimpers in her arms, as though to apologize, as his mimic suddenly seems to express worry instead of anger or sheer fright, reminding her yet again much more of Jaime than she ever saw it in the beast’s golden eyes before. While the wolf would let Brienne touch him, he was always reluctant about being held close, always kept his distance, perchance afraid of the power of his own claws and teeth mingled with his animalistic instinct.

_He always tries to protect me._

“Finally,” Tyrion grunts, lying on his back on the ground, Arya rolling right next to him. “You are a troublesome mutt, you know that?”

The wolf snarls at him, which has the dwarf back away, though he starts to ease again once Brienne shoos the wolf – and the animal straightly turns his attention back to her and setting back its ears, looking more like a dog than a gruesome wolf.

“Seems like you tamed him after all,” Tyrion comments. “Even without a leash.”

“We shouldn’t waste our time,” the tall blonde argues. “We ought to get back to the right hole before sunrise.”

“I appreciate the spirit, Brienne,” Tyrion says with a smile.

“I wouldn’t want Jaime’s efforts to go to waste,” Brienne tells him instead.

“Of course,” Tyrion chuckles, rewarding her with the smallest of smiles before pushing up to stand again. “But I would suggest that you and the wolf keep a bit of a distance. I would not fancy being eaten alive by my own brother. That seems like an unworthy death even for the likes of me.”

And so, the three set out, Brienne taking the front with the wolf whereas Arya and Tyrion keep in the back.

“Have you yet considered how we are meant to get inside the city – if not in the grandeur pushing past the city watch the way Jaime likely had it in mind?” Brienne asks, her eyes on the wolf all the while, almost unable to keep her gaze away from him, because she is so accustomed to seeing him just like this that she still can’t even begin to imagine that all that Tyrion said is good and true and that there is indeed a chance to calm her weary, weak heart.

“I am glad that you already show such investment in our plan, even though you are so opposed to it, still,” Tyrion chuckles.

“I am not opposed, I just have reasonable doubts,” Brienne replies. “Even more so if it prevents us from what we ought to do. Because Cersei and the High Sparrow have to be exposed, their lies have to be revealed – and they ought to be punished for it in kind.”

“That is in fact without a doubt,” Tyrion agrees.

“I am just done running away,” Brienne adds in a murmur. “I am done living a life in hiding.”

Because this life also means hiding from the man she would give so much for to see another time, to fight with another time. It’s a cruel kind of dance, but a dance no less, just that on this occasion, Brienne would mean to turn to the man, if only for just one dance, but Jaime always turns away before she can get to him, and so she turns round and round again, without a chance to catch him.

And what is such a dance worth?

What is such a life worth?

Then she rather takes a quick death instead.

A life in hiding was a pain she already felt deep in her heart when she had to keep her secrets from Roelle, later on from Jaime. And Brienne hates lying already, which made this always an even heavier burden to carry.

No, the hiding has to end.

All of this has to end.

This way or the other, whether the planets are with them or not.

The music will stop playing.

And she can say goodbye.

And so the Gods will, she might be granted to bid farewell to the man her weak heart could not help but fall for, looking in his normal eyes, in his human eyes, the ones that have a smile in them, hidden deep within, only for those to see who dare to look past his easy grins and cutting comments.

So perchance that is indeed her hope beyond reaching into the future, telling the truth. If there is a way to undo the curse for only just a day, for only a moment, then she can say her goodbye, and if the Gods show her some additional kindness for all of her troubles, they may make her weak heart a bit stronger again, to face the inevitably truth with her chin held high, knowing that what she would have wanted, greedily swallowed up until it poisoned them all, will fade, will flit across Jaime’s face and fly into the sky to never be seen again.

But saying goodbye for him to hear it – that seems worth so much more than most people will even begin to comprehend.

They continue through the forest until they return back to where they came from, all letting a silent sigh of relief that they still have some time before sunrise.

“Well, in case you don’t have a plan just yet about how to get into the city, I may be able to provide,” Brienne announces as she busies herself with the saddlebags once more, all the while making sure that the wolf stays in his spot, which he thankfully does, seemingly sensing that it is important that he stays right there, if only for tonight.

“I am all ears,” Tyrion laughs, because truth be told, he has no clue just yet about how to get into the city. Had he been granted the rights of staying inside the capitol’s walls after Jaime and Brienne were cursed, he could have mapped a wonderful plan most certainly. Tyrion would have spent hours observing the guards to figure out the exact moment when someone may slip past the defenses, during a WECHSEL or some other kind of distraction. He would have ordered for rooms in a tavern well in advance. However, Tyrion was locked away at the septry, and thus only had his memories to build the plan from, beside the books he was able to acquire.

“I’d suggest we enter by night,” Brienne tells him.

“How so?” Tyrion asks.

“Because people know Jaime’s face more than they will know mine. Even more so because I can dress even more as a man, no bother, so that even if Cersei ordered to watch for an ugly, blonde woman who is freakish tall, they may mistake me for a man regardless of the description,” Brienne answers.

That was in fact a plan she already harbored short after she was cursed and managed to run away from the man tasked to kill her. She felt tempted to go back into the city as a man, to break Jaime free, and if not that, at the least, get close to the Queen and the High Sparrow to make them pay, but it never came to that as the bird kept taking her away from dangers, until Jaime was in the woods and needed rescuing.

A smile flashes across Tyrion’s face. Most people make the mistake to underestimate Brienne, something that he found was actually a connecting matter between the two, which made her friendship ever the more valuable to him, regardless of the fact that he betrayed her trust later on. Since she is a gifted fighter, people said she was dull. Since she didn’t speak much, people thought she didn’t much to say. Since she worked in a tavern, people thought she was a commoner without any worth. However, under the ungainly looks lies a woman of a good, kind heart, who can be quick with her tongue to render even the likes of Tyrion or Jaime speechless, and who has a rather sharp tactical mind.

However, that seems to be the issue with people – they will overlook the gemstone covered in mud, uncut and without shining facets, only ever aware of its worth once it is presented to them on a velvet cushion or embedded into a crown or rich knight’s blade.

“Which means that our dear thief may do best dressing more girlish for the matter,” Tyrion adds, looking over to Arya who only ever gapes at him. “What?”

“They mistake you for a boy,” Brienne points out. “We could pass you off as my niece or daughter.”

“I seem to be everyone’s niece here, because Jaime did the same thing with the old woman back in the woods,” the young girl grumbles.

“And that worked, didn’t it?” Tyrion argues.

The brunette rolls her eyes at that, leaning her head back. “Ugh.”

“Then that still leaves the question how we smuggle a wolf into the capitol,” Tyrion ponders.

“We won’t smuggle him in,” Brienne says. “We will take him right through the city gates.”

The dwarfish septon tilts his head to the side at that. Because that was one of those things he kept pondering without ever getting a satisfactory answer, but Brienne seems utterly convinced of the success of the bluntness of that attack against the vicious Queen.

“And why do you think they would let us do that?” Tyrion thus asks.

“Because…,” Brienne begins, finally pulling out that which she was looking for. “… The Queen awaits a hunter meant to bring her a living wolf.”

“What is that?” Tyrion frowns as Brienne hands him the slip of parchment.

“The orders written by the Queen for the hunter that came after us last night,” the blonde explains as she lets go of the letter.

Tyrion looks over to Arya in shock. “What?! No one’s mentioned that to me.”

“You didn’t ask.” She shrugs.

“For Seven Heaven’s sake,” Tyrion mutters, shaking his head.

_Such a trouble._

“Don’t bother, he’s dead. His dogs at him,” Arya tells him, and Brienne adds, “Ramsay Snow, bastard son to Roose Bolton. Cersei legitimized him as heir in exchange for Jaime alive – and me dead or alive, whichever he preferred. It says so in the parchment.”

“She seemingly wanted to be sure that the City Watch would not ask uncomfortable questions,” Tyrion mutters as he lets his eyes wander over the slightly washed out page. “But this is a marvelous chance for us. Good of you that you saved it, Brienne.”

Brienne curls her lips into a frown. “I thought Jaime may want to read it.”

One of those things that established itself between the two was the act of saving things up, not throwing things away carelessly, so to share some memories, if only through the object, if only in its echo.

“Of course that was the thing most prominent on your mind,” Tyrion chuckles. “But the point is… this is a wonderful distraction. If the City Watch gets news that the hunter has arrived, and he then says that he would not mean to disturb the Queen the night before the big celebration, they would likely still send someone. I can’t imagine she would leave them unaware that those are important news. And that means she will feel safe, because she is going to believe that you are dead and that Jaime is in the hunter’s possession, waiting for his royal punishment.”

“Seems like the man was good for something after all,” Arya comments. “He is our way into the city, it seems.”

“Indeed. We just ought to arrive very late so that there is reason for people not to question why we would want to wait until next morning. This is… actually what we needed! Ha, it seems that the Seven are in our favor after all,” Tyrion says, clapping the flat of his hand against his thigh.

“I wouldn’t be so rash on that matter,” Brienne cautions him. “None of this guarantees that we will find a way to get into the Sept without being killed before we can make ourselves be heard.”

“Oh, for what do we have the girl, right? She knows a way through the sewers,” Tyrion argues.

Brienne shakes her head. “And yet, that is no guarantee either.”

“It’s better than nothing.”

“That is true,” Brienne agrees. “Better than nothing.”

The young woman lets her gaze wander past the fireplace, past Tyrion and Arya, until she can spot the moon partially hiding behind the canopy. Gods know what she would give to see the sun again, feel its warmth on her skin rather than her feathers.

But if what Tyrion said is true, then it will be only a short while from now that she is going to capture a flash of sunlight, and if the Gods are merciful for once, a flash of the light that shines behind the golden eyes of a wolf, a flash of the light she felt while fighting in the training yard, rolling in the high grass outside the city gates, laughing, jesting, talking, listening.

And that is definitely not nothing.

“I think it’s time that you get the wolf into the hole. We should maybe start a bit earlier, just in case he is frightened by it now,” Tyrion comments.

“It might be for the best,” Brienne agrees. “Though you shouldn’t call him being frightened once he is himself again. He doesn’t like that.”

“Maybe you get to tell him that yourself.”

“We will have to see,” Brienne sighs as she stands up, still surprised that the wolf, as though he knew that this was the decisive night, readily follows her tracks instead of keeping his distance, as though there was something calling deep within him to do what she asked of him – to stay, to stay with her, if only for a night.

 _Which almost seems like a cruel fate_ , Brienne thinks only ever to herself as she steps into the hole. _Because Gods know how I wanted to say that to him the night before all hell broke loose._

It was the most bittersweet torture when he pushed her down and told her to just go to sleep, so threateningly close, though it meant nothing, she knows that, always knew that, when Jaime told her to stay that night. The Gods may forgive her one of these days for how she wanted that night to last forever. And perhaps that was also why this became her destiny. Brienne wished for the night to never end – and now the night indeed never comes to an end for her to see as there is always only the moon to greet her.

Brienne lowers herself on top of the fir branches, the wolf readily following her example, which has her want to let out a sad, hollow laughter right at that moment, because here is destiny again, mocking her for her selfishness and hidden desires, wanting more than she ever should have asked for. Because here she supposedly gets what Brienne asked for inside her mind the night that changed it all, just that there is a wolf instead of the man who made her heart beat out of her chest like a second heart. Here she is, still asking him to stay.

The young woman slowly reaches out her hand to brush her fingers over the animal’s fur, keeping her blue eyes on the golden ones of the wolf, if only for the faintest hope that her eyes will pierce deep enough to reach the man hiding within, to let him know that she is staying, too, that it is different from the tower, that she won’t disappear a second time, not until the deed is done.

She can soon feel the first waves of heat creep past the treetops as the sun begins to take the place of the moon. Brienne does her best to stay calm, so to keep the wolf under control, thankful for the fact that Tyrion and Arya move almost soundlessly to get Oathkeeper into position to “bend the light,” as Tyrion calls it.

Hidden in the shadows, she can watch the light slowly but steadily pour into the hole until the wolf’s mane is bathed in a sheen of gold to the point that she can no longer make out his contours, to the point that Brienne can feel them shift under her calloused fingertips, where there is suddenly no soft fur, but soft skin, no foreleg, but an arm, and then Brienne sees green instead of gold and she can no longer breathe.

All air leaves her, as though the smallest tremor may bring to crumble what keeps materializing before herself, as though the smallest disturbance could break it to a million pieces, that which she longed for over for years and was always denied.

She can only look at the man before her, can just stare, can just drink the gold with her eyes, trying to memorize the smallest of details, so to hold them together, so that they won’t break into a million pieces.

 _Goodbye_ , Brienne means to say, but the words won’t come. Her mouth opens and closes to form the words, but they won’t tumble into the world, no matter her efforts. And that is when she hears his voice in her ears, after all this time.

“Hello.”

She still cannot breathe.

She still can only look at the man before her, can only just stare.

She would want to say goodbye, but all she manages to reply is a whisper, a murmur, but nonetheless true.

“Hello,” is all Brienne can answer, the goodbye not coming ever, it seems.

There it is, even behind glistening eyes, she can see the faint smile, the light that makes her weak heart beat out of her chest, into the world.

Brienne halfway expects that Jaime will offer some tease, a joke, if only to ease himself, never having been able to handle such moments at all too well, quick to conceal, quick to hide, but that is when she can feel the faintest of brushes against her hair.

“It grew quite long since I last saw you in the tower,” he says with a smile Brienne cannot read. She already means to reply something with a scoff, but that is when he adds, “I like that. Suits you well.”

And Brienne wants to say something in reply, she wants to bring out the much-needed goodbye, but it won’t come, no matter Brienne’s efforts, no matter her wish to just get over with it, to put that vicious pound of flesh to ease until the deed is done.

“Fight or yield, Brienne?” Jaime then asks, urgency in his voice as he can see the light creeping into the hole, short before taking over her as well and thereby rip apart yet again what is meant to be eternally together while eternally apart.

“Fight,” Brienne answers, her voice suddenly having the strength she couldn’t muster for a goodbye, because maybe, just maybe, she is not ready for it yet.

Maybe this is not their time for goodbye after all, because, after all this time, there was a hello at last.

“Then we fight,” Jaime says with a soft smile tugging at his lips as he tries to memorize all those details he never took the time before, because this is how he would want to remember her for when he closes his eyes in this world. “Together.”

“As always,” Brienne adds.

Jaime opens his mouth to say something, but that is when he can feel yellow and orange flicker across his skin. His eyes remain fixed on Brienne’s as light swallows her contours, leaving nothing but blue on the verge of losing the struggle against the yellow, only for a black shadow to climb up into the sky with a shriek.

Jaime sits up, blinking against the stinging pain in his eyes. There she was, there was the impossible, and yet it was possible, and yet he saw, and yet he touched, the woman he can only ever spot hiding behind blueish feathers, behind brilliant blue eyes of a hawk who seems to have so much of her character even her animalistic shape.

There she was, after all this time.

There she was, making the choice.

And here he is now, bound to carry it out.

“Here,” Jaime can hear Arya say, holding out his clothes to him. The older man takes them with a grimace, “Thank you.”

“So… you made your decision?” Arya asks cautiously.

“ _She_ did,” Jaime answers as he starts to dress, stopping for a moment there to let his fingers dig into the new stitches, to remind himself that those come from her, that this was her, that she stays – for as long as she can, and for as long as he can.  

“And what did she decide?” the young girl asks.

“To fight the curse and break it if we can,” Jaime answers. Those were the options he carved into the trees. One symbol for “yield,” one for “fight” destiny itself, and both found themselves yield to circumstance, that their fight would not be about their own destiny, but that of others.

And yet he saw, and yet he heard.

Fight.

Fight together.

Always.

“And you?” the young girl asks cautiously.

“I told you, didn’t I? Her choice is mine. I have my answer – and now I ought to carry it out,” Jaime answers before turning his attention to his younger brother, whose eyes, he can see, are glistening with unshed tears, too. “And it seems that you were right. Whatever it is, the sun and the moon can bring about change.”

“I had never any kind of doubt,” the dwarf chuckles.

“Tyrion?”

“Yes?”

“I thank you… brother. For this.”

Tyrion’s breath stops for a moment, before he replies in a shuddered voice, “I thank you for the trust, brother.”

“Well, then it seems we ought to be on our way,” Jaime says, letting his gaze wander to the sky above, where Brienne is back into the other shape that is always out of his reach, but nonetheless keeps as close as she can.

Because she won’t leave him.

Just like he won’t leave her.

They are both slow learners, for all it seems.

“The choice has been made,” Jaime says. “And we better see to it that we don’t lose to destiny again.”

At least not without a fight.

Side by side.

Till the bitter end.

And beyond.

 _Because I will follow wherever you go. I will stay with you_ , Jaime thinks to himself, glancing at the sword shining in the light of dawn. _And for you, I will try to win or die in the attempt._


	9. Gates, Conversations, and Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne, Tyrion, and Arya mean to get into the city. 
> 
> Cersei makes an important announcement. 
> 
> Brienne pays someone a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thanks for sticking around, for reading and kudoing and not yet noping out, LOL. 
> 
> Anyway, we are getting closer to the ending! But now is one more night to take care of before the decisive day. 
> 
> So... here we are. 
> 
> I hope you are going to like it. 
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

“You can’t mean that.”

“Do you sincerely think I am joking on that matter? Get. In.”

“But he will eat me!” Tyrion insists, looking at the cage they found outside the village, a last reminiscence of the hunter whose name will always be remembered as Snow. A grimace of irritation flits across Tyrion’s face as his eyes remain fixed on the wolf walking circles in the confined space, not looking pleased _at all_.

 _And judging by the way the wolf glowered at me last night, I wouldn’t fancy getting near him without protective iron between the two of us_ , Tyrion thinks to himself.

“People will recognize you, so our best chances of getting into King’s Landing are that you stay under the hay and keep quiet for once,” Brienne argues, fixing her hood another time to hide her hairline underneath.

She felt rather comfortable in her disguise as Brienne, since a young age, appreciated breeches and tunic over dresses. Thus, she was happy with the choice she was able to make, reckoning that so long she keeps the hood over her blonde hair, she is likely to be able to slip past the City Watch without anyone’s notice.

Not that this eases her stomach in the least, however. Brienne found herself muttering the words over and over while Tyrion handled the bargaining at a small town not far away from the capitol to get them some passable disguise. She never found herself as a gifted actor, even less so a great kind of liar, as their condition should ultimately prove. Because even the one secret Brienne meant to keep? She muttered it to Tyrion in the hope he would rid herself from it. Thus, Brienne found that the one way of going about it was what she has done ever since she picked up the sword – train and keep training, keep muttering, whispering, practicing.

Giving up is no longer an opinion, after all.

_I said fight – not yield. And that makes it Jaime’s promise as much as it makes it mine._

Arya, on the other hand, could not be more displeased with the dress they bought with the remaining coin they could gather. As the brunette picked out a dress she found the least unbearable, the young girl felt reminded all the while of how liberating she found it to train in breeches and tunic with Syrio, only to feel then again called back to how she got into argument after argument with Sansa over how her older sister liked dresses and needlework, finding it silly, a waste of time and effort, finding her own pursuit of water dancing so much more worthwhile.

However, even those things are under change as Arya got to meet a woman wearing armor who is not afraid of needlework either, and instead sees the necessity of the task, setting to it even in the midst of the night, if only to help the man who seems less than gifted, even more so after the hand injury he sustained when he jumped from the tower as a man, only to land on the ground as a wolf.

Back in those days, that was a constant point for Arya’s irritation. She yelled at her sister, she yelled back at her. They fought, they cried in their chambers, hiding away the tears, or so Arya reckons, as she can’t believe that her sister didn’t shed a tear when she found herself wiping at those salty beads more often than she would ever want to admit.

And even with her father she kept clashing. While he was the one who brought her what Arya tended to believe as the greatest gift – Syrio and water dancing – Eddard Stark was also the one who told her that they were departing from the capitol. He was the one who told her that her beloved dance teacher would not come along, no matter how his youngest daughter begged, no matter how she yelled and kicked her feet, not caring whether that made her seem even more childish than it was in the retrospective.

Back in those days, Arya felt like she was greatly wronged, felt like she was forcefully kept away from that which she loved most, and that by the people who were meant to love her so very much. She felt cheated out of the one thing that had brought her joy in the capitol, and the young girl found herself unwilling to give in, a trait she inherited from both her parents, it seems.

At that time, Arya made the choice, Needle in hand, to be who she thought she wanted to be, even if that meant stopping being the daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark, even if that meant no longer calling herself Arya Stark of Winterfell, even if that meant to never hide in the creeks and the Godswood just outside the walls of her home. Arya wanted to be a water dancer, she wanted to be Syrio’s apprentice, and if that meant to become only just a girl, a girl without a name, even if that meant being called Arry, being called Mouse, mistaken for a thief, she was willing to pay the price.

Because everything else in her life seemed so utterly unbearable back in those days, keeping Arya from who she thought she was meant to be.

_And the Old Gods will know what a fool I was for ever thinking that._

Because the truth revealed itself to her other persons’ stories, or rather, the one story they all share in, this most cruel fate. Because she got to meet people who had stripped everything away from them, that which they truly love, without the chance of a choice, without some distant dream of being water dancers. Their dreams, to her understanding, were simple, humble almost.

_They just wanted to be together. And even that was not granted to them, the bastards._

And now that they are on their way back to the city, Arya found that there are greater wrongs than the one she thought she suffered at the hands of her loved ones, because her father meant to protect her, because Sansa wanted to be herself like Arya wanted to be herself, and she wouldn’t have it, because Syrio this, because Syrio that. Jaime and Brienne, however? They were bereft of the choice of being themselves, of each other, and that even though they want nothing more to keep the other safe, to keep by the other’s side.

It’s odd how small problems can seem that used to stand as tall as a mountain back in the day, but none of that matters now, as Arya wants to keep focused on the task ahead, on the one hope that there may be for the people she came to care about more than the young girl ever dared to believe possible.

Because this story, in her opinion, should end another way than the one Jaime and Brienne have in mind.

_There has to be another ending out there, hiding behind the moon or the sun._

And if it is within her powers, Arya will see to it that new pages are added before the book is closed, before the ink is dried.

“You know, it seems almost more likely that he will not eat me than that I will succeed in staying quiet,” Tyrion jokes.

“Ever the more a reason to chance it,” Brienne points out to him. “Now just get in. He senses that you are scared. Be confident that he won’t eat you, then he likely won’t.”

“ _Likely_?”

Brienne rolls her eyes at him. “Tyrion, _now_.”

The dwarf lets out a shallow breath as he approaches the back of the carriage, the golden eyes of the wolf always just one step behind him. While Tyrion dares to think himself lucky enough to have found some common ground with his brother again, to the point that he called him such, the youngest son of Tywin Lannister is not sure if the wolf is ready to follow Jaime’s example.

Because the plain truth is that you can talk yourself out of a situation when it comes to a human, but less so when confronted with an animal that does not rely on speech at all.

That is a lesson Tyrion already learned once he realized rather painfully that the woman he took to be someone he could speak to against the odds of her resentment against him was indeed a monster Tyrion could not reach with his voice, no matter how good the argument, no matter how heartfelt the suggestion.

_Sometimes, words just aren’t enough. Sometimes, only actions speak. Even if that means having to get into the lion’s den… or well, wolf’s den for that matter._

“Fine. If he starts to nibble on me, I will scream, though,” Tyrion warns Brienne.

“Duly noted,” she sighs.

Tyrion opens the small door, ducking as he peeks his head inside, the wolf growling at him as a _strange_ kind of greeting.

“Now, now,” Brienne says to the wolf in a scolding tone, though the animal remains fixed on the dwarf about to enter his little cage instead of the woman he otherwise seemingly came to respect ever since last night.

“Jaime, if you are somewhere in there, by any chance, remember that I didn’t do just bad, but also some good. I treated her wound and travelled all the way to follow you, with nothing but a stubborn mule as my companion. I drank less. And I found a way for you to break the curse. But you need me for that. You need my help, like it or not. So… don’t eat the help,” Tyrion mutters, if only to calm himself as he cautiously holds out his hand to the wolf, at which the animal readily sniffs.

_And let’s hope it’s for matters of curiosity rather than appetite._

At that moment, Tyrion thinks that maybe this will cost him the hand, which has him curse himself for stretching out his good right instead of his weak left, but then, to his shock, the wolf moves slightly aside. And while the animal remains tensed, if only to let him know that this welcome is only for the time being, the wolf lets him pass. Tyrion quickly gets into the carriage, thus, and retreats into one of the corners. “You won’t even realize me there. I am a dwarf, I take up little space. See?”

For emphasis, he lies down and tosses some hay on top of himself. The wolf perks his ears at the little man and looks at Brienne with a glance that she can only ever identify as confusion.

“Good wolf. Such a good wolf,” Tyrion says, at which the animal then growls at him, so the dwarf holds up his hands in surrender. “Alright, seemingly not keen on getting compliments. I was just trying to build up a bit of a relationship. Don’t mind me. Just don’t eat the help, remember. Don’t eat the help.”

“I think he would mind you less if you just stopped talking,” Brienne argues, bending down to help Tyrion cover himself with blankets and hay.

“Very subtle way of telling me to shut up,” Tyrion chuckles as his vision becomes increasingly obstructed by the hay raining down on the top of his head.

“It won’t be long. We just have to make it to a tavern,” Brienne assures him. Though the tavern seems almost painfully far away as Brienne lets her gaze wander to the city gate, the high walls seemingly growing with every second passing. While she sounded rather convinced in her plan, Brienne long since gave up on the hope that things ever go smoothly for them. For that, destiny has proven them wrong far too often already.

_The likes of us never get lucky._

“I will demand some wine for my troubles,” Tyrion says as he lowers himself down completely so that Brienne can finish his disguise.

“We can see about that once it’s time,” Brienne answers before locking the small door properly again and then draping a thick cloth over the cage. After that is done, she turns her attention back to Arya, who still bothers with braiding her short hair to look less like the boyish thief who escaped from the city as Mouse, bound to return as Arya Stark.

“Do you need any help with that?” Brienne offers.

“No, it’s fine. I saw my sister doing those often enough,” Arya answers, wrinkling her nose.

 _It seems that Sansa’s fancy for elaborate braids is not as useless as I thought it to be_ , the young girl thinks to herself as she finally finds a rhythm to set her fingers to, suddenly remembering how her older sister and mother did it many, many times against her will. _Tying the hair back may even make it easier in fighting, upon reflection._

“Are you ready, then?” Brienne asks.

The girl nods her head. “Yes.”

“Just bear in mind that you speak as little as possible. We don’t want to get more attention than necessary,” Brienne tells her, looking around with her brows furrowed in worry she doesn’t want to show as much, however.

“Alright,” the brunette agrees as she pins the small braids on both sides of her head in the back. Once that is done, she quickly hops on the front of the carriage. They traded the mule for the new clothes and some other things, which is why Honor is now bound to pull the carriage, at least until they are inside, because that is not the place for a mighty steed the likes of him.

Brienne looks at the wagon another time, still not quite believing it that she is indeed returning to the city a part of her always thought she would never lay eyes upon again.

Yet, here they are.

Yet, there they were last night, in a hole, and she saw the impossible, heard the impossible hello.

So even if they are bound to stay unlucky, miracles are no longer as far out of their reach as she tended to believe.

“Then let’s go,” she says as she takes the reins into her hands to make Honor move forward, ahead, back to the city that brought her so much pain, but also so much joy.

“The wolf is slobbering!”

“Shut. Up,” Arya and Brienne say in unison as they carry on ahead, to the city looming in the shadows of the night, ready to swallow them up.

Brienne keeps her gaze fixed on all that is moving to the best of her abilities as they come to the city gate. Tyrion suggested to enter from the Old Gate, as Arya made her escape from the Iron Gate last time.

“And if there is one thing I picked up from my brother’s talking about the routines they have, then it is that normally, they have guards who will regularly guard one of the gates instead of having them rotate. Thus, this heightens our chances that they have never laid eyes upon you,” as he explained during the day, all the while fighting with the mule that now has a new owner to bother.

“It’s strange,” Brienne mutters, lost in thought.

“What is?” Arya asks, leaning forward. Brienne turns her gaze, almost looking caught, but then explains in a lowered voice, “I came through Old Gate when I first came to King’s Landing, that’s all.”

And back then, she couldn’t have been more displeased. Brienne can still recall how she lamented to Roelle about how she never wanted to leave Tarth, wanted to go back instead, wanted to stay with Goodwin, and found herself close to tears when her septa made mention of how the capitol was her best chance to find some “passable candidate” to wed her off to who was “not completely repulsed” or “blind by any chance or wink of fate.”

At that point of time, the city came to embody all the bad that Brienne found going on in her life, starting with her father’s demise. She had her little treasure chest hidden in the same fashion Tyrion is now hidden away in the carriage with the wolf, under blankets and hay, and Brienne was not willing to give only just a glimpse to the woman she was travelling with, the woman who only ever spoke ill of her.

Brienne, even though she wouldn’t want to admit it by that time, was simply scared, scared of the glances she knew she could no longer deflect the way she could by reciting her noble birth, by making mention of her father, by counting on his kind heart to allow her to train with Goodwin, her beloved master-at-arms, so to have a chance to knock all those little shits into the dust.

This young, ugly girl was afraid of entering the city dressed in her one good dress, her hair braided too tightly to her head so that it hurt her skull, looking ridiculous, even more out of place than she felt anyway.  

She was afraid of being forced into being married to a man who would only ever climb on top of her to do the deed of making heirs and otherwise at best ignore her or at worst punish her for being herself, for liking swords and preferring breeches over dresses.

She was afraid that she would lose herself in the city, that the capitol would cut out that which made her her own person, who she wanted to be.

She was afraid of the New that awaited her past the Old Gate.

She was afraid of the new self Brienne was bound to become once she passed the old.

And for a long time, that fright, however deeply hidden away behind scowls, hard labor, and pursed lips, she kept it, it followed her on every travel to the tavern and back, on every step Brienne took to carry baskets with food back to Roelle to provide for a woman with soon failing health and equally failing spirit.

However, all of that fear faded once Brienne had saved up enough money to buy an armor on the Street of Steel and found her way into a melee. Once she had a sword in hand, all fright was gone, and only confidence remained as the young woman found herself in the midst of the dust of the battlefield.

_Only to be discovered by no one less than the Lord Commander himself._

And he saw her for true, for who she was.

And he did not run away – Jaime chased her through half the city and made her stop the charade, the hiding away. He made her turn towards him and face him, look him in those most beautiful eyes.

And he didn’t tell her to change.

_He only ever told me not to grimace before I lunge, so not to give away the game._

It was during that time that Brienne realized that those fears were over for her, that she had shed it outside the city gates as she came to stay, call this place home. So long Brienne stayed around the man who knew her for who she was, for who she is, all fright was gone, all she found bad in her life stayed in her little treasure chest, whereas the rest seemed to bathe in the light of the freedom from fear.

While the city taught her terror thereafter, for the nature of the curse, for all the pain Jaime and she were made suffer, Brienne finds that one resolve renewed as they near the gate – she no longer feels afraid of being herself.

_I am no longer afraid. I won’t ever be again._

“I came through the Dragon Gate,” Arya recounts, pulling Brienne out of her thoughts, back to the carriage, back to the new rather than the old. “All the way from Winterfell down the Kingsroad to here. I was not at all happy to be stuck with Sansa for so long. And I made that known. A lot.”

“That’s the way it is with family,” Brienne says, looking at the wall coming closer, growing in size and becoming lighter in color as she can spot more and more torches shedding light on the naked stone. “You cross one another over and over again.”

“Well, I liked it in the city once I got to train with Syrio,” Arya says, biting on her lower lip.

 _And I liked it once I got to train with Jaime_ , Brienne thinks only ever to herself, the faintest of smiles brushing at her lips as she tightens her grip on the reins another time.

“Sometimes all it takes is a change of perspective,” the blonde woman sighs as they come closer to the gate to the point that Brienne can make out the soldiers, even though their outlines are still gaining shape as they come nearer.

“Indeed,” Arya agrees.

They continue in silence until they ride through the gate.

“Hold on right there,” one of the guards shouts, hopping off his chair to come closer. “What’s your business in the city, stranger?”

“The Queen awaits me. I was tasked to hunt something for her. Here, see for yourself,” Brienne answers in the lowest voice she can bring herself to as she hands the soldier the slip of parchment.

“At that hour of the night?” the dark-haired man questions, wrinkling his pointy nose.

“The voyage was long. I will seek her out in the morning,” Brienne answers curtly.

“And what did you hunt for the Queen?” the man of the City Watch questions, seemingly not yet convinced of their disguise.

“What the Queen asked of me,” Brienne replies, her eyes following the man as he circles the carriage. She already means to say something when he starts to pull on the cloth wrapped around the cage, but then reckons that she should let him.

And she is proven right as the man flicks the drapes back for just a second – and the wolf jumps against the bars, baring its teeth, giving the man more than a fright as he jumps back, clutching at his chest.

“A living wolf!” the man gasps, eyes wide with sheer terror.

“And a hawk, as you likely read.” Brienne nods her head at the side of the wagon, where a feathered animal hangs from a sack, a courtesy from the man they traded with at the other town, though it is in fact a large chicken.

“And the Queen wanted both of these for what exactly?” the man wants to know, his eyes still wide from the shock that just crept up on him from underneath the cloth wrapped around the growling, looming beast.

“I don’t ask questions. That was what I was told to hunt. And that was what I hunted,” Brienne tells him, her mimic unmoving.

The man tears his gaze away from the carriage to take another look at the two at the front, nodding at Arya. “And who is that?”

“My niece. The mother’s gotten sick and I am supposed to bring her to her aunt living here. It was on the way,” Brienne answers.

“Hmmmm,” the man says, pondering the situation, before he hands Brienne the parchment back. “Well, that’s the Queen’s seal. I guess I would be a fool to keep her from you, thus. So… be on your way.”

“Will do, good man,” Brienne tells him. “Seven blessings to you.”

“And to you,” the soldier answers before moving out of the way to grant them passage inside. Brienne is quick to tighten her grip on the reins to make Honor walk inside before the guard can change his mind.

As they ride on, they can hear the soldier ordering another younger one, to come to him and “deliver that message to the Queen at once.” They can hear the lad hurrying away, even if rather clumsily, whereas Brienne keeps Honor at an even pace while they disappear down the next alleyway.

“That was step one,” Brienne says as she can see the lad run down the street, towards the Red Keep, staggering over and over as he keeps pushing forward, past the people going about their usual business, unaware of all that is going on inside the city’s walls without their knowledge – something that they are intent on changing.

 _Shall the Queen, for once, be lulled into a false sense of security, instead of having others believe that they are safe under her watchful eye_ , Brienne thinks to herself, finding the thought oddly pleasant.

“And now we ought to take the next,” Arya agrees with a smirk.

After that, they make towards a tavern Brienne has never been to before, if only to be sure that she is not recognized immediately.

Following a quick look around the inn, she decides on what room to take, pleased to see that they also tend to pile up the barrels in the back so that you can easily climb to the first floor, even as a dwarf.

_Some things don’t change, no matter the location, thankfully._

While Arya already moves their belongings into the chamber, Brienne sees about Honor and the wolf being safely stored away in the barn in the back of the tavern, surprised to open the cage to the wolf lying on top of Tyrion, snoring almost peacefully.

“I think I have to make a small correction: I was scared that he would eat me, but now I think he is suffocating me,” Tyrion grunts.

“And yet, you have enough air to speak,” Brienne argues as she gently taps against the wolf’s side to make him lift his head. Tyrion is quick to slip away and out of the cage while Brienne tosses a few strips of meat into the cage, which the wolf readily digs into with a pleased growl.

“I will see after you later,” Brienne promises before closing the cage again while Tyrion dusts himself off, picking some straw and hay out of his unruly hair.

“It worked,” Tyrion chimes, a big smile cracking across his face.

“Thus far, yes. Come now. I will help you get up to the room,” Brienne says, gesturing at him to follow.

“This reminds me of the one time you sneaked me into your chamber after I was too drunk to go anywhere,” Tyrion recounts with a smirk.

And Gods know how he missed those times while he lived hidden away at the septry, with only just his precious books to keep him company, even though it was also thanks to Brienne that he learned of the merit of friendship reaching beyond his own kin.

Being here now has him think back to all the good Brienne brought not into his brother’s life, but also his own. Because Brienne’s trust and support, he learned, is something you earn, which made sleeping by her hearth for a night and her never losing a word about it to Jaime almost something he would have fancied to wear as a badge of honor.

“That was more than once,” Brienne corrects him. “And not just because you were drunk.”

No, she can still recall that one time she found him stumbling out of a brothel and she had to act quick so that no one would see what the little septon was up to, which may seem odd, as Brienne normally had and has opposition against people betraying their vows, but she learned through Tyrion that sometimes you are forced into making promises, like he was forced to say the words because his sister commanded it.

And Brienne found that those are vows Tyrion didn’t have to keep, after having spent some time with him, and that even before she knew of what the Queen was truly capable of.

“And I remember them all fondly,” he chuckles.

“Do you?” Brienne huffs. “For that, you always complained about it that I only ever gave you a thin blanket to sleep by the hearth.”

“Sometimes you have to miss something to learn to appreciate it,” Tyrion tells her, more serious on that note at last. “A lesson I learned at last, and that even though I am oh so awfully smart that one should think I knew that all along.”

Brienne shakes her head with a smile before lifting him on top of the barrels, over to the open window, where Arya already leans out to hold out her hand to him to safely guide him over the windowsill.

“What a service!”

“Shush now,” Brienne urges him. “I will be back in a while.”

“What? To where would you go?” Tyrion asks, looking at her with a frown.

“I just have to finish something. Take your rest the best you can. Tomorrow is going to be a harsh day, this way or the other,” Brienne tells him.

With that, the tall, blonde woman walks away, her feet easily slipping over the uneven grounds of the streets, as she walked them almost blindly for so many times as Brienne carried baskets and barrels back and forth when she was only just a tavern wench, looking impossibly ugly and freakish in her ill-fitting dress, but endurable that even the innkeep was eager to keep her against the odds of her looks.

Brienne makes sure to keep her gaze lowered at all times, though she can still see and hear the changed spirit flitting across the streets dipped into the darkness of the night and the small yet warm lights of the torches flickering in the light breeze. During her initial time at the capitol, there was music even in the poorest spots of Flea Bottom, people singing old songs or telling even older tales over _bowls o’ brown_ , a piece of bread, some faded cards to play with or uneven dice. There used to be life, hiding even in the darkest spots of the city, and that was what Brienne learned to love, no matter the poor conditions she found herself in otherwise.

But now?

Now there are just solemn faces walking on, heads bowed, backs crooked, feet heavy. People get drunk at the inns to numb their pain, for all it seems, and fear glistens in every man’s, every woman’s, and every child’s eyes as they walk on, ducking their head to the shadows of the Two Pillars raining down on them all the way from the Red Keep and the Great Sept of Baelor to Flea Bottom.

This is indeed no longer the city she entered as a young woman.

This is not the city she left as half a woman, half a bird.

This is the new world created by two pillars that do nothing but shake its people, offering no safe ground, no steady stance, no protection, no food, no love, just terror, fear, and a false sense of what is sin and what is virtue.

 _But that will change_ , Brienne thinks, finding herself walking faster. _Whether it costs us our lives or not, this new world will collapse under its own weight. And so the Gods will, it will take with it that which made it weak, the Two Pillars themselves._

After some time of walking through a city she could walk blindfolded, even though it is so much changed in spirit, in the way it holds more light than it emits these nights, Brienne reaches a small graveyard. She stops by the familiar tombstone, partially covered in weed and moss.

She sucks in a deep breath before bending down in front of the small tomb and wipes her gloved hand across it to reveal the bare stone underneath. The young woman lets her gaze wander about another time just to be sure that no one is around to hear her speak, because Brienne knows that this may be her last chance to rid herself of the old burdens weighing heavy on her shoulders.

Because if she is to leave this world coming tomorrow, Brienne wants to go as free as she is while she takes flight to the sky as a bird, free of the sins they wrote on her skin without asking, free of the sins she did indeed commit and never answered to.

Tonight is the last night to be true to herself before she will have to be true to whoever is willing to listen to their most solemn tale.

“It’s been a long time since I was here last,” Brienne mutters. “I hope that the Seven have been merciful with you since.”

The young woman shifts her weight before removing her gloves, licking her lips before she goes on to say, “We are back in the city, Jaime, Tyrion, and I. And a girl you never met. Though I reckon you wouldn’t have been too fond of her, I am afraid, as she seems of a similar spirit to mine… And we both know you didn’t fancy that at all. We will make the truth known at last, you know, but… there is no sure way to tell whether there will be a time beyond that day, for us at least. So I thought I should… _confess_ , in a way, because I only ever did to Tyrion, but not to you. And it’s not like you can deny me now, even if you wanted.”

A small smile flashes across her lips. The High Sparrow told Brienne over and over to confess, and she denied it, not wanting to commit herself to sins that weren’t hers to carry, hide away in her treasure chest, but the young woman knows that there is this one thing that she did, the one thing she did not tell, hid away, and that is the one thing she finds worth a confession. Though Brienne doesn’t require a septon, let alone a High Sparrow, to absolve her of her sins.

That is not the Gods’ business, only just her own.

“I… you know that I always tried to speak nothing but the truth. Not that I was good at lying anyway, but… I lied to you on that one matter. I kept from you what would have guaranteed the two of us a better life… My noble birth, namely. Yet, even though you liked to think of me as this mannish girl who only ever meant to disobey… I didn’t mean for it, I truly did not. You can believe me – if you dare. I was never against you, just like I was never opposed to marriage or even dresses, no matter my lamentation about either one. I would have wed for love, you know? But the men you presented to me… I could not love them, just like there was no love in their eyes for the likes of me. So how would I wed if not for love?”

She lets out a ragged breath.

That world still sizzles on her tongue, but only ever unleashes the heat of the sun she can no longer see once it travels into Brienne’s heart.

 _Love_.

One word, one simple word, and yet, able to contain an entire world that fits into a saddlebag.

“I kept this a secret, hid it away in a treasure chest under my bed because I… I found love, even though it was not mine to wed, mine to have, to hold, to call my own. And that made it impossible for me to open that chest and present to you what’s inside, even if that meant I had to keep lying to you till you took your last breath. I found love, if in different shapes. Just like I found a kind of love in you – for me – that you wouldn’t admit to even if I had a chance to ask you now, I am sure. I think you hated to love me, and yet… I think you did. I know I loved you, even though there was a lot to hate about you, how you talked me down and told me that I was good for nothing and only ever brought you grief. But still… I owe you my gratitude, because… if not for you, I never would have escaped, wouldn’t have sneaked into a melee… never would have found love in a city I did not know, never would have found myself right within its walls. And for that… I thank you.”

Brienne lets her gaze wander about the small graveyard, which seems unmoving, standing still, silently listening to her little story. “And it doesn’t matter that there was never a way for us, that there was never a way for him to love me back in kind. I came to see that what matters most is that… _that_ I loved… still love… Not just him, but also Tyrion and Arya. I loved the life I lived for as long as it lasted. I loved every second of it. I loved the melees, the fights, the rides out into the woods, reading with Tyrion and jesting with Jaime, even the long hours in the taverns and listening to you finding it in yourself to tell me about your times as a young girl, before you became a septa. And you didn’t even realize how much I found myself in your stories, fighting back against conventions like you said you did when you took on the gray robe. I may not love the life I am now forced to live, the one that is only the half of another, but the one before that? I loved it, I still do, so fiercely that my heart can barely take its heat at times.”

And then there is only just the cold light of the moon to soothe the burning, to ease her pain, but that pain, in the end, only means that one thing: That she is still living.

“Maybe you were right that I was a good-for-nothing who wouldn’t see that marriage to someone willing would have been the simpler way. It certainly would have been easier for the both of us, but…,” Brienne says, only for her lips to curve into the faintest of smiles, one that won’t be eased away by the moonlight creeping over the walls surrounding the small graveyard. “I loved and I was loved, in facets, in different fashions, at the tip of a blade, in the rhythm of a sword dance, in a book given to me because it had the Sapphire Isle in it, in a dwarf’s snoring by my hearth… and that… was always worth the effort, was always worth the pain. And will be, for all time.”

Brienne came to realize that even though she curses the day they were imprisoned, and found herself wanting to go back in time to spare Jaime her own existence, the light of the last dawn revealed something that Brienne was so accustomed to hiding away in her little treasure chest: That she loved this life, still loves it, loves every moment, for better or worse, and that those times were the ones that are the happiest of her life, will always be the ones that she will treasure most. For Brienne can’t imagine that she will have much chance to create future memories, happier moments than these.

However, that is alright, she found, because there was a time when she loved, a time when she was loved, not just by her father, but by two men who came to see her for who she was, for who she is, rather than focusing on her titles or ungainly looks.

Brienne found and was found as who she was, as who she is.

And they invited her to stay.

Stay herself – and stay by their side.

In that small life, Brienne was true, and Jaime and Tyrion granted it.

And that, to her, is a life worth dying for.

“And I want to leave this life being true to myself, too,” Brienne says, finding her eyes stinging. “And so… I hope you hear this so that you remember me as who I was rather than who I appeared to be. This is the one secret I kept from you. The rest was nothing but the truth all along. This is me. This is all you ought to know about me.”

_Remember me as someone who loved and who, against all odds, felt being loved as well. Remember me like this, Roelle, and you may come to love me, too, if only just a bit. Remember me for who I was, for who I am. Remember me as true. Remember me as me – and I will love you back as you, the woman who may have spoken ill of me, but who, in her last moments, touched my face and bid me farewell, told me to take care of myself because she could no longer. Remember me like this, Roelle. Let me be this, because this is me. Always._

“While I do hope that you will forgive me for keeping that from you, I won’t wait for it. The treasure chest was opened, the secrets spilled out into the world, so there is no longer any denial that this… is my story to tell.”

And that is a story of love, unrequited, but love no less.

“I bid you farewell, Roelle. But my time is now, so I have to go – ahead, for better or worse.”

* * *

 

“Please step forward, Ser Meryn,” Queen Cersei says, not bothering to gesture at him as the man wearing the White readily approaches, reminding her more of a rat normally flitting across the black cells than an actual man.

 _Useless_ , she thinks to herself, for the briefest of moments wishing back to the time when she had a more able Lord Commander, one who trained the young brothers to excel, who was swift with the blade, but then she reminds herself of the man’s betrayal and the prospect of what lies in the not so distant future.

_Useless, too, just in a different way._

“So… Any new developments with regards to your special mission, Ser Meryn? As I seem to recall that you promised me the fast return of the despots into our black cells, from which no one should be able to escape,” Cersei says in an even voice, her face stoic as she looks down on the man who seems to shrink even more into the size of a rat than his movements revealed moments ago.

_So utterly useless._

“I… have received news that they were able to find them near the septry where your brother…,” the Lord Commander recounts, but Cersei cuts him off harshly, “The dwarf.”

 _Monster_ , she thinks to herself. He should still consider it a blessing that the Queen only ever banished him from the city, to rot away at that septry instead of doing what her father likely would have wanted instead – to just toss this wretched creature into the sea.

_However, even little monsters ought to be repaid for their support, even if of the involuntary kind. A life for a life, or rather, a life for a life – and one not worth mentioning._

“To where _the dwarf_ was sent, yes,” he corrects himself, bowing his head.

“Oh, how fortunate. So I would assume that they are on the way back to here to present me with that which you vowed to bring to me,” the Queen says, cocking an eyebrow at the man standing at the bottom of the stairs, helmet under his arm, the white cloak looking almost brown in the dim light of the candles illuminating the Great Hall.

“I am afraid that isn’t so, Your Grace. It took them all day to get out after they found themselves locked up in a storage room there, tied up and beaten. They wrote to me the first chance they had to send a raven to the capitol,” the Lord Commander informs her.

Cersei tilts her head to the side slowly. “And how did they end up in that… _peculiar_ situation, you remind me? As you supposedly sent no less than your very best?”

“The dark-haired boy was with the… the dwarf and that witch. She must have used sorcery to beat them, I am most certain of that,” Ser Meryn answers frantically, his eyes nervously switching between the throne and its growing, flickering shadows as it keeps dancing in the hungry flames of the torches all around.

“Oh, _surely_ it was a magic trick,” Cersei agrees with a roll of her eyes.

 _You little fool truly know nothing_ , she thinks to herself. _The only magic this wretched woman bears in her ungainly body is that of the prophecy she is about to bring down on me, though I will see that this does not happen – likely better without you than with you._

“They have been searching for them since, but found no trace just yet. Those people are good at covering their tracks,” the knight tells her.

The Queen sits up straighter on the Iron Throne, letting her fingers brush over the rough edges of where the swords still stand out. They always give her reassurance, steadiness when she finds herself and the world shifting in and out of place. While Cersei could care less about wielding a blade, she finds her breath hitching at the power they emit. The Queen learned that she doesn’t have to know how to fight with a sword in order to have it used for her own purposes, wherein lies its greatest power: You just need a strong arm to do it for you.

You don’t have to fight those fights yourself, you just have to know someone to do it for you.

_And if you don’t know anyone, you make him._

“It would be a lie on my behalf not to express my utter disappointment over the matter, however. My best men fail at the task of capturing a man, a beast of a woman, now witch or not, a small thief, and if need be, open the throat of a dwarf,” she tells him, her expression blank as she looks down on the man who almost seems to shrink away underneath the weight of the White.

“They had a gigantic crossbow,” Ser Meryn defends himself.

_Useless, truly useless._

“At some point I should have guessed that this little monster would retreat to such activity to protect himself. But it makes no difference now anyway. Ser Meryn, be it as it may, the plain truth is that I asked something of you – and you repeatedly failed to answer the call,” Cersei argues, her fingers stopping in the motion of tracing the molten blades, instead gripping metal armrest, clutching at it, holding on to it, letting out a low hiss.

“I just need a bit more time, Your Grace.”

“I don’t. Have. Time. Ser,” the Queen snarls, her fingers digging into the metal of the molten swords that make up her throne, her kingdom, all of hers that she holds dear and that she will die defending if need be.

And the Queen doesn’t have the time to wait for some unable, useless, rat-like Lord Commander to try time and time again, only to fail just as miserably as the first time.

Wherever she looks, the Queen is met by disappointment.

Wherever she turns, people take her precious time away.

_No, there is no time. There never should have been a time, to be more precise._

Cersei dared to believe that this affair was finally being taken care of, yet, whatever trust she may have had in that man, it was, _as always_ , greatly disappointed.

_But that will change now, too – because there is no time._

“I will double the amount of men sent out to find you the Kingslayer and the Witch, Your Grace. Be sure that I will see to it being done,” the knight tells her, tapping against his breastplate for emphasis, a gesture so ridiculous on him that the Queen has to try hard not to laugh out loud at the man’s poor attempts of sounding like his predecessors, or in fact, just like any other knight bearing the title in good faith.

“I have been sure to it being done a number of times, Ser Meryn, and never did you actually… have it done,” Cersei points out to him coolly.

Ser Meryn makes one step forward, his hand clutching the helmet ever the tighter as he speaks, “Just a few more days, Your Grace. I was quite caught up in the preparations for the celebration of the Mother. The measurements to be undertaken for your security are of my highest interest, as you will well know.”

“Your highest interest should that which I tell you to,” Cersei retorts. “And what did I tell you?”

“To find them and bring them here,” he answers meekly.

“And what haven’t you done?”

Ser Meryn bows his head in shame. “Find them and bring them here.”

“So you can imagine my disappointment after all?” she asks.

“Of course I can, Your Grace. And you must believe me that I am disappointed in my men and myself foremost,” he tells her.

“Are you? I can’t seem to spot any shame on your behalf,” Cersei replies, leaning back on the throne to feel the swords digging into her back reassuringly, holding her when no one else seems to be able to do just that. “The Sparrows have their eyes everywhere, Ser Meryn. And you know that it isn’t just to the High Sparrow to whom they whisper. Thus, it doesn’t go unnoticed by them – or me – that you have been spotted in the Silk Streets for your… very own _fancy_ , of which, I am sure, the Seven would never approve. And neither would the Crown, as you took a vow meant to ensure that this does not happen.”

A shiver runs through the man.

“Your Grace, that is…,” he stammers helplessly.

“A disgrace, you mean to say, yes? My own Lord Commander breaking his vows after his predecessor did the same before? And here I thought you learned from that man’s example,” Cersei accuses him, her voice nonetheless calm and even.

Because truth be told, the Queen couldn’t care less for what he does down Silk Street. She doesn’t care whether he slips under the sheets with whores, men, or little girls. Ser Meryn means nothing to her. In fact, Cersei doesn’t expect loyalty from the likes of this man. She expects service, she expects results, and even _that_ is something this little rat can’t seem to give to her.

With Jaime, it was different. Because he was meant to be hers, hers and hers alone.

_Defend the queen. Obey the queen. Keep her secrets. Do her bidding. Your life for hers._

That was his vow to her, as it was to Robert, as it was to Aerys before that.

However, when confronted with the choice between his Queen and this wretched beast of a woman, _this sow in silks_ , Jaime did not make the one choice that he actually had. Cersei expected to hear the words readily slip from his lips, to hear the vow she heard him say before, but none of that came back in the tower when she waited for just those words to reaffirm what she thought was simple fact.

Instead, her brother, her twin, her Lord Commander, her soldier and strong arm, stood there with bloodied hands from where he had scratched at the walls like some madman, his eyes dark, his features grim and determined, more determined than they were when he swore fealty to her in the great procession of when Cersei elected him as her Lord Commander and made him say the words to her and her alone.

Instead, he stood there, glowering at Cersei, baring his teeth, as though his body already knew what was to come.

Instead, he told the Queen within a single heartbeat that if she dared to sentence the ugly woman to a Walk of Atonement, he would walk alongside her for “a sin not committed,” and that even after Cersei told him, in a great display of lenity, that she would spare him the shame, after the woman already shamed him so.

She thought that would sway him at last. Cersei told him that she must have enchanted him, that it wasn’t his fault.

People make mistakes, after all, even the likes of Jaime Lannister.

All she wanted from him was that he saw it as a mistake and repented himself for it in kind. She wouldn’t have demanded much, just what she had demanded of him before and that he had readily given to her without questioning.

However, instead, Jaime just stood there, shook his head.

However, instead, Jaime looked at her with loathing.

However, instead, Jaime said:

_“I would walk those streets naked a hundred times if only just to spare her. And I will walk beside her if you force her into it. If you want to speak us guilty of a crime not committed, then I will face those false accusations to the same measure. And I would walk those streets forever if only to show you that there is no way in the Seven Hells that I would agree to this bargain you propose, **Your Grace**. I would rather walk those streets for all eternities if only to tell you that one thing – no.”_

Instead of guarding her, instead of choosing his Queen, he chose another.

He chose the lesser.

He chose a beast over a queen.

And yet, he chose.

_“She is of noble blood, far nobler than most people will likely ever know.”_

_… Queen you shall be... until there comes another…_

_“Brienne the Beauty.”_

_… younger and more beautiful…_

_“You have the crown on your head. Who would take it from you? Who would dare?”_

_… to cast you down…_

_“Think about it, sister. We could have it all. All you’d have to do is to let go of some things that we both know you hold very dear. It may open up some exceptional possibilities for you.”_

_… and take all that you hold dear…_

_“I suppose her youth is rubbing off on him in a good way, sister. I didn’t see our brother that joyous as he has been since that mannish woman stomped into his life. It’s a quite sight!”_

He chose, however poorly.

And so, she had to choose as well.

It was right at that moment in the tower, when Jaime told her to go away and only ever return if she meant to drop the charges held against them, that the Queen found her answer to the question of whether there was someone out there whom she could ultimately trust, whether there is someone who would never betray her, never disappoint her faith.

And her own twin brother turned his back on her that day, with his words, his body, his entire being as he told her over and over to leave, to go, to stay away.

No, as sad as it is, a Queen cannot even dare to rely blindly on her own brother’s support, and that after she gave him so much, and that even though she made the choice so easy that even a slow learner the likes of Jaime should have gotten it.

There was doom on one side and salvation on the other, and he turned his back on salvation, instead went back to the bloodstained wall and kept cursing the woman’s name under his breath over and over and over again.

The choice should have been just that simple.

And still, Jaime chose poorly.

And still, he chose wrong.

No, a Queen cannot trust, it seems.

 _At least not so long I look for men loyal to me_ , Cersei ponders. _Because there is a way of creating them instead._

“My devotion to you and your cause has not changed, Your Grace,” Ser Meryn assures her quickly, his eyes nervously flitting across the great hall, thereby calling the Queen’s attention back to this Lord Commander to deal with.

Because all hopes seems lost for the other.

“But the flesh is weak. Something my own brother had to discover, enchanted by that shambling beast,” Cersei argues, her face unmoving as she speaks.

And while Ser Meryn would not know, Cersei knows the statement true in the one way that matters to her: the man she wanted to trust turned out weak, turned out a failure, for how frail must a heart, a body be to choose such over the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?

How weak must he be to choose to stay with her instead, even though Cersei made sure that they will never see each other again?

How weak must he be to choose the discordant echo of a wretched beast over the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?

 _… Until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear…_ _No, that is over now,_ Cersei reminds herself, pressing her back further against the backrest to feel the edges and bumps, all that she gained in exchange for her brother’s loyalty, for power, for her right. _All will go well now. The witch didn’t see it after sucking on my thumb that I would find my own magic to avert this destiny. She couldn’t have known that. No way. No way._

“I hoped to be as discreet as it was possible for me,” Ser Meryn tells her, seemingly still convinced that the Queen bothers herself with his abnormal fancy for little girls in the brothels. Even though Cersei would readily give him all the little girls he wants if only her Lord Commander weren’t such a miserable example of his profession.

_If only he was a little more like Qyburn in that regard – then he would find himself equally rewarded with that which he wants most. You could have as many girls as you liked, Ser Meryn, you blithering fool. If only you weren’t so utterly useless._

“You would have been discreet if you simply refrained from doing just that,” Cersei points out to him drily.

“I am…,” Ser Meryn means to say, but that is when the doors in his back open and one of the servants steals inside.

“Your Grace?” he asks.

“What is it now? Don’t you see that I am in conversation with the Lord Commander?” Cersei hisses in annoyance.

“A man of the City Watch wants to see you urgently. He said that you had them instructed to come to you in case they saw…,” the servant explains in a hurry.

Cersei’s hands let go of the molten swords for a moment then as she sits up straighter again, a shuddered breath escaping her lips.

 _Finally_.

“Bring him in,” she says.

“Shall I leave, Your Grace?” the Lord Commander asks, sounding far too hopeful for a man supposedly being so very brave.

“You stay. I am not yet done with you,” is the answer he receives from the Queen.

Ser Meryn bows his head and moves slightly aside while the young man of the City Watch hurries inside, bowing his head a number of times.

“Good man, what news do you bring me?” Queen Cersei asks.

“The hunter has returned, Your Grace,” the lad tells, wheezing.

“Did he?” Cersei asks, tilting her head to the side.

The man nods his head frantically. “My general saw it with his own two eyes.”

“And what did he bring?” the Queen questions.

“A dead bird and a living wolf, Your Grace.”

Cersei closes her eyes for a brief moment, lets the news wash over her, lets them flood her.

_Dead. Dead at last. Dead. Dead. Dead!_

And the dead can’t come back to her, can’t take from her, can’t cast her down.

The dead can’t keep the living.

And even if that means keeping her brother around, full of loathing, the Queen will see it fulfilled that they shall never meet again, and that he will finally come to understand what he lost – and for what he lost it.

She will force that slow learner into a confession, into an admission, an apology, and a lesson to be learned about what trust and loyalty truly mean.

And that will prove the witch wrong all the same.

There will be no other.

There will be only her.

_Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me._

She can already hear it echoing down the hallways of the Red Keep – for all times – and it greatly calms her as the Queen finally finds herself breathing easier.

“And why is he not yet here?” Cersei questions anyway, because even the relief, she knows, is something she should not give out that willingly. Last time she thought this matter was being taken care of, the man took flight with the coin to build up a new life, never informing her of how the woman took flight.

And he rots away in the black cells for good now.

“He didn’t mean to disturb Your Grace at that hour of the night, or so he’s said. He means to come to you tomorrow. Or shall I fetch him for you?” the lad asks.

Cersei ponders for a moment, but then shakes her head. “No, no, it is fine, it is fine. Let the good man get his well-deserved rest. I thank you for your services, my good man.”

She could care less for the hunter’s rest, but the reveal may play to her advantage coming tomorrow. How pleased the High Sparrow is going to be when he can finally see the wolf for himself, surely to the point that he will forget about some many things, because those visions kept plaguing him so very long.

_Qyburn should know best, as often as he brews a special kind of tea only just to ease the barefooted fool’s great pain of memory._

“Always to your service, Your Grace,” the man of the City Watch says, saluting awkwardly.

“Was there something else?” Cersei asks.

The man shakes his head. “No, not that I know, Your Grace.”

“Then you may leave. I still have some urgent business to handle with the Lord Commander, so if you were so kind to excuse us?”

“Of course, Your Grace,” the man agrees, before turning to Meryn. “Ser.”

With that, the lad disappears from where he came.

“Ser Meryn, step forward again,” Cersei orders, her tone instantly changing into a sharp knife.

The Lord Commander resumes his spot in front of the Queen, his steps slow, heavy, uncertain, on the verge of running away, but not daring, because that may be worse than staying, or so he seems to reckon.

“I assume that you have heard what just happened. A simple hunter, a bastard to a high lord, no man of the Queensguard, no anointed knight, achieved what my Queensguard could not in how many tries? Not even the little thief you could bring me. And that has me ask myself why I would dare to entrust my life into your hands, Ser Meryn, when all you seem to be able to do with them is slide them up a girl’s skirt or slap her across the face with it to live out your little sick fantasies?”

“I have been a man of the Kingsguard under your husband, I have proudly served under you, Your Grace. I would give my life for you any other day,” Ser Meryn announces, taking a stronger stance this time, though Cersei only ever finds it more ridiculous.

“And yet, your efforts in showing your dedication to your Queen remain _achingly_ small, whereas the disappointments just keep piling up,” Cersei argues mockingly.

“Your Grace, it is true that the hunter seemingly found them faster than we did, but what should matter is that those people have been found and will be brought to the Queen’s Justice, am I right?” the man tries, desperate to clutch at straws.

“Which is not at all thanks to you.”

“No, it is not,” he agrees.

“Ser Meryn, I want you to meet someone tonight,” she then says, catching him off-guard.

“The hunter?” Ser Meryn asks, irritated.

“No,” Cersei answers as she looks over to the shadows out of which a freakish tall man in full armor approaches, his steps so heavy that they shake even the Queen whilst sitting on the Iron Throne. Her fingers dig into the blades again, a pleased smile tugging at her lips, relishing the moment, the surge of power she can feel travel all the way from where her knight steps forward to her throne.

“Meet Ser Gregor.”

The Lord Commander gapes at the gigantic man. “He wears the White.”

“That is because he is the newest brother of the Queensguard,” Cersei tells him. “He is my new executive arm to bring law and order back into the city, as you and your men, your City Watch, you… have miserably failed at the task over and over and over again.”

“You cannot mean for this,” the man calls out in utter exasperation.

“Tomorrow, Ser Gregor will be named as Lord Commander in the Great Sept of Baelor in the eyes of the Seven and men. I just meant to inform you of that circumstance out of courtesy, Ser Meryn. Come tomorrow, Ser Gregor is going to make it his personal obligation to guard his Queen on every of her steps, against all dangers that may come her way, and dedicate himself to no one but her. Something I could never demand from you in the same measure, as you remain… too caught up in your own desires and dirty fantasies.”

“But I was elected…,” the man means to object, but Cersei cuts him off harshly, “I elected you, and so I elect you to move out of the way. This is a new era, Ser Meryn, this is the great game, and you are far too small, far too unimportant, far too unable to carry out what I need to see being done, to be only just a part of it. I need loyal men, I need able men, and Ser Gregor is all of these things, _and more_.”

So much more, everything she would have wanted in Jaime, but even her oh so perfect twin proved to be an utter disappointment. But Ser Gregor? He was _made_ for her, made from a dying man, a dying beast of a man who turned into her willing servant thanks to Qyburn’s ministrations. This man, this soldier, her protector, will be the strong arm she does not possess. At last, Cersei will be Lord Tywin Lannister’s heir, and people will see her for this, the way she would have wanted it in a long time, but never truly achieved it, held down by her brothers’ weaknesses.

Ser Gregor will do her biddings without questioning.

He will never disappoint her.

He will never betray her.

Will never betray her trust.

Will never leave her for another.

He may not say the words, but he will live them: _Defend the queen. Obey the queen. Keep her secrets. Do her bidding. Your life for hers._

Ser Gregor will be loyal where her brother failed her.

Till the bitter end and beyond.

Because that man has just one purpose in the world, as it should be.

The Queen.

The Queen’s protection.

The Queen’s justice.

The Queen’s desires.

The Queen’s wishes.

Her and her alone.

_Me. For I am Queen._

_Me. For I shall stay Queen._

_Me. For he will make sure that I stay Queen._

_Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me._

“But fret not, Ser Meryn. You will not suffer my brother’s destiny. For that, your crimes are far too small by comparison,” she tells him.

For that, he is far too small by comparison.

“But my Queen…,” the man stammers helplessly.

“You will remain part of my Queensguard, just that you are now no more than a simple general. I suppose it will do you good to teach our young brothers some humility, some humbleness, and you will show them by accepting your new role without lament. You will be one of your brothers again, Ser Meryn. And coming tomorrow, you will find yourself amongst them, guarding the Sept while I am inside for the celebration of the Mother alongside Ser Gregor,” Cersei informs him.

“But my place should be by your side,” Ser Meryn insists.

“Your place should be where I tell you to. Your place is outside. Ser Gregor’s is inside. Because he will do well to guarantee my safety. Unless you want to test his capabilities yourself, of course… to which I would _readily_ invite you, Ser Meryn. See whether you can beat him in a fair fight – surprise your Queen and mayhaps make her reconsider. Be my guest,” Cersei taunts him, only ever having to give so much as a nod to Ser Gregor before he draws his sword from its sheath, a blade too heavy for any human to wield.

But he will.

Because he can.

And he wants – because she would want him to.

Ser Meryn takes three steps back, his eyes wide in shock.

“So? Do you want to test him?” Cersei asks with an easy smile.

“No, I don’t think…,” the man stammers helplessly.

“Then all is good, my dear _former_ Lord Commander. And who knows? Maybe one of those days you can rise back to some status of importance. Maybe finding that little thief for me at last may put me in a better spirit. Though I will warn you once more that I do not like to be kept waiting. And the longer it takes you to find this little bastard who escaped from the black cells and thus shames the Queen and her reign, her authority and power, the worse it may get… _for you_.”

“I will find him, I swear…,” Ser Meryn wants to say, but she won’t let him, “Don’t swear, just be on your way.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

With that, he scurries away. Cersei leans back on the Iron Throne, relishes the power she can still feel resonating from where it was shaken by Ser Gregor’s steps.

“Tomorrow, a new age will begin, Ser Gregor,” she says, though the Queen knows that she is saying it more to herself than anything else.

And isn’t that ever the sweeter?

“The Queen’s justice will ring.”

“And you will carry it out for me if need be, won’t you?”

The man slowly nods his head, gripping his sword a little tighter.

“Then all is well,” the Queen concludes, finding herself at ease at last.

* * *

 

“And what would you be up to?” Tyrion asks with an incredulous frown as he watches the young brunette now sitting on the ground with closed eyes, her arms and limbs moving ever so slightly as though someone pulled threads attached to them.

“I am trying to call the path to mind, inside the sewers,” Arya tells the dwarf, trying her best to concentrate. “We can’t afford that I get lost in there.”

“True,” Tyrion agrees.

 _Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Quick as a snake. Strong as a bear. Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow_ … Arya calls to mind, but then stops herself as the path blurs away before her eyes, images of Syrio swimming up before her eyes.

“Is everything alright?” Tyrion asks.

Arya keeps her eyes closed, trying to regain focus, trying to stay in the immediate past rather than the one further back – because this is the time she ought to stay in for now, or else she will fail to create futures where there is nothing but present and past as of yet.

 “Do you have a plan up your sleeve if all of this doesn’t work?” Arya sighs when her mind just won’t listen to her commands, hoping that it will return to her after a break. Thus, she opens her eyes, squinting against the warm light of the candles and the small fire cracking in the hearth.

“Why would you be asking me this?” Tyrion questions with an uncomfortable grimace.

“You seem like the kind of man who would normally have a plan in case the first one failed – possibly the second, too,” Arya tells him, shrugging her lean shoulders.

Tyrion chuckles at that as he briefly considers taking a drink from his wineskin, but then deciding against it. “You seem rather good at observation. Yes, most certainly.”

“But you don’t have a plan?” the young girl asks.

“Truth be told, I stopped having back-up plans, or rather, having overly much faith in their success. Last time, it gave me a false sense of security. I am well aware that there is not much certainty in the near or distant future all the same.”

“And yet, you have hope,” Arya points out to him.

“I have any reason to be hopeful,” Tyrion answers. “Because my brother got to see the woman he would die defending any other day, even though the curse should forbid it. Even if all is meant to fail… their future, however long or short, will be without the curse. They will be free. That is the one thing tomorrow will give them.”

“I would hope for more.”

“So do I. And we shall work for that.”

“But I mean that. What is going to be after the truth’s been spoken, you think?” Arya wants to know, reckoning that now is a good time to address those doubts she finds running circles inside herself without relent. While the young girl means to keep in high spirit, means to keep her hopes up for when Jaime and Brienne do not, Arya cannot deny that there is a part in her that is scared, deeply frightened by the possibility that those two may be absolutely right about what they said.

That there is no way for them beyond that day.

That this is their last chapter to write.

“If all goes well, we will only have to run. If things don’t go as planned… I may still request your help another time to break someone out of the black cells for me.”

“And if they catch me a second time alongside them?”

“You should always remember your name, girl,” Tyrion tells her. “Do you sincerely think that it won’t catch on that Lord Eddard Stark’s daughter is held in the prison by the Queen?”

“People can disappear there without anyone knowing their names,” Arya argues. She saw them in the black cells, all those souls forgotten, rotten away, some piled up on a cart to be dumped without funeral, without tombstone to attest to who they were before the cellars swallowed them whole.

And for a time, Arya thought she would join them, until she found her resolve renewed after she stumbled over a stone lifted before her time, by the same women now in her company.

“Not this time,” Tyrion tells her, which has the young girl narrow her eyes at the dwarf in suspicion. “What did you do?”

He shrugs. “I sent a raven to Winterfell.”

Arya gapes.

_The little devil!_

“You…,” she mutters, but he is quick to interfere, “You have to realize that if all fails, your name may be the one thing that can keep us alive, yes? I can’t imagine that your Lord Father will keep waiting once he gets message that his daughter is held at the capitol. And he will hold the Queen responsible most certainly.”

The young girl crosses her arms over her chest. “You could have told me about that, you know?”

“I could have, but then you would have had much more chance to murder me,” Tyrion points out to her. “And I didn’t fancy that. It was enough that I had to worry about Jaime and Brienne wishing to chop off my little head.”

“I could still do that right now,” Arya grumbles.

“Oh _please_ , you already adore me far too much.”

The brunette takes a moment to herself as Tyrion chuckles to himself. Last time someone made mention of Winterfell, of going back home, it made her stomach sink to the point that it knocked the air out of her, but right now, it is a different feeling, Arya has to realize. She is still tensed, filled with uncertainty and resistance, and yet… a kind of warmth, a small relief, even.

“What did you write in the letter?” she asks hesitantly.

“I was as brief as I could be. That I had the pleasure to host you at a septry in the Crownlands and that you meant to move towards the capitol without me having a chance to hold you back,” Tyrion answers.

“And you think my father is going to trust your words?” the young girl questions.

It is no secret that there has been a feud running deep between the Lannisters and the Starks long before Cersei proclaimed herself Queen. Jaime himself pointed out that her father always judged him for having slain Aerys, a thing that made her angry with the former Lord Commander for a moment, before she heard him out and had to see that her father may have had his part in that all the same.

Because perspectives matter, she learned.

There is more than one side to a story, just as there are so many sides to this story she found herself stuck in ever since she escaped the black cells.

“I wouldn’t think that, no, but that won’t stop him from making sure regardless of his suspicion, if I stand correct,” Tyrion tells her. “It’s his missing daughter we are talking about. What do you think would happen?”

“I don’t know,” Arya says meekly, bowing her head, chewing on her lower lip. “I ran away from them last time, had them believe that I am dead… at some point I ask myself why they would bother coming here to go looking for me… after all that I have done… after all the grief I caused them.”

“I betrayed Brienne’s trust, lied to my brother, made deals on his behalf behind his back, which led to them being cursed into animal shape, put under a spell meant to cast them eternally apart, they were beaten and humiliated thanks to me… and yet, neither one killed me. And yet, they dare to have faith in me. And yet… Brienne smiled at me today, a rare gift in itself. And Jaime talked to me as though there was not as much distance between us as there apparently is whilst we traveled to the capitol. Truth be told, girl, if _I_ can have this, I don’t find it farfetched to assume that your family will come rushing for you once the raven found its way to Winterfell.”

The young girl flashes a small smile at him.

“And even if not, by some miraculous wink of fate… you still have a place with us, now, granted that we get out of this alive.”

“That’s good to know,” Arya mutters with a smirk.

It’s nice to think that she has a place in other people’s heart, not for the sake of her title, for the sake of duty alone, but because the three of them honestly care.

She finds herself ripped out of the thought when there are footsteps in the back of the tavern.

“Is that Brienne?” she asks, already getting up to walk over to the window.

Tyrion follows her readily. “Took her long enough.”

They both lean on the windowsill, catching a familiar thatch of blonde hair glowing even in the darkness of the night. However, she won’t do so much as look up to them, instead she keeps walking past the barrels, away from their secret passage up to the chamber.

“Why isn’t she coming in here?” Arya asks.

“Do I look like her? How would I tell what’s going on inside her head, hm?” the dwarf huffs.

Arya wrinkles her nose. “You are supposed to be the smart one.”

“I am a good observer, that is all,” Tyrion argues, his eyes fixed on Brienne as she puts back the wooden bar with which the barn is locked before quickly stealing inside, shutting the door as quietly as she can.

“Oh, now I know,” he says with a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Well, seems like she will look after Honor and Jaime another time.” Arya shrugs.

“I don’t think we will see her until morning,” the man argues, however.

“How is that?” the young girl asks with a frown.

“I’d think she will mean to spend the night there.”

“Why?”

“Why _not_?” Tyrion replies. “Don’t you see? This may well be her last night on this earth. And with whom do you think would Brienne mean to spend that last night if she were to choose?”

“With Jaime,” is the simple answer.

“Brienne normally refuses to sleep in the night, so not to waste more of the half of her life that remained, but I tend to think that this may be a night worth sleeping through, worth dreaming away,” Tyrion whispers, his eyes remaining on the barn a moment longer. “And we should do the same.”

“Tomorrow is the decisive day,” Arya agrees. “And we better see the work done so that I still have a chance to decide on whether I want to be around for when my father gets the news.”

“Indeed,” Tyrion chuckles.

“Then let’s go to bed at last.”

It’s time to rest, time to recollect, to gather all of their strengths for the fight to come, the battle yet to be won.

It’s time to rest to muster all hope and take it with.

To guide the way even in the tunnels beneath the city.

As a shining light.

Towards a future that will hopefully reach further than tomorrow.

And thus, both Tyrion and Arya are fast asleep, and while not resting easy, resting in the knowledge that, for one night, hope is not too far to dream away to.

* * *

 

Inside the small barn, Brienne walks up to the cage after she locked the gate to make sure no one comes inside or out, to let the wolf out of the cage. The animal looks around in irritation, seemingly not having expected to be released from its confinements.  

“It’s alright now. You won’t spend the night in a cage,” Brienne assures him before sitting down on the hay.

No more cages.

No more locked chambers.

No more towers.

_That will end, too, coming tomorrow._

“You’ll be free to be who you are, too. Because the truth will come to light at last,” Brienne says as she leans down, surprised when the wolf walks up to her, fast on his paws, before lying down next to her on the hay. He never did that before, but Brienne welcomes it ever the more tonight.

The wolf leans his head down to rest in her lap and her hand starts to trace the shape of his head, so to remember, so to never forget.

Because she will remember him as who he was, as who he is.

A man of many small and big faults, taunting smiles and cutting comments, sometimes too arrogant, sometimes far too keen on hiding away instead of seeking out help, someone to carry the burden alongside him.

And yet, a man of great honor.

And yet, a man who saved half a million people at the cost of his own reputation.

And yet, a man who would have given his life for the likes of her any other day.

And yet, a man who saw past her looks, past all those things about her that won’t fit into this world, to see what fitted into his own.

And yet, a man with the brightest smile, the most captivating eyes.

And yet, a man deserves far more than he ever got.

And yet, a man she cannot help but love.

Brienne closes her eyes, allowing herself to retrace her steps a little further, all the way to the Red Keep, some years ago, the night before all hell broke loose, before her little life ended.

_“The city’s flooded, wench. You’ll drown the horse – and yourself along with it! And what a shame would that be! Who is going to lose against me if not you? A maid in a pool! I’d have to fish you out, think about it!”_

_“You’ll just come with me to the Red Keep.”_

_“I am not taking ‘no’ for an answer.”_

_“Come now.”_

_“You just have to be silent.”_

_“You stay right there.”_

_“I insist.”_

_“What a terrible host would that make me?”_

_“You stay right where you are.”_

_“I am strong enough.”_

_“Just stay.”_

_“Stay.”_

Brienne can feel the wolf’s breath evening out and she finds her heart beating to the same steady rhythm. A smile flashes across her lips.

“I am staying,” she says to the wolf, to the man hiding within.

_“Goodnight, Brienne.”_

“Goodnight, Jaime,” she whispers, letting sleep take her away, back to the night, to the sweetest, deepest sleep she ever found herself in, his scent on the sheets, when her wrists were still warm from where he touched them, and her weak heart easing as she succumbed to the sweet darkness of slumber, unaware that her world would fall out of step once she opened her eyes again.

But for that one night, against the odds of the bittersweet taste on her tongue, she was the closest she has ever been to him.

The closest she will ever be, for all it seems.

For that one night, she lived so much further than she ever dared.

For that one night, she was so close, so very close.

For that one night, she was so close to him.

For that one night, she was so close to being perfectly true.

So very close.

Too close, perhaps.

But close no less.

And so, Brienne drifts off to the darkness of her own dreams and the light hiding within, in the memories, distant and close, feeling his presence beside her, their hearts beating to the same rhythm, the same unheard melody.

And they will wake up to the truth.

Isn’t that a good ending for a story?

And even if it is not, it is the one fitting them best.

But for now, they are granted to rest side by side.

For only just a night.


	10. Parchments, Lights, and Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The people get ready for the celebration of the Mother.
> 
> The Queen and the High Sparrow prepare for their games. 
> 
> Jaime is confronted with some many revelations.
> 
> Arya has to find her way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thanks for sticking around, for leaving a kudo and some of you even a comment. That always makes me so happy! :D
> 
> Anyway, I hope you are going to like this installment. I know that we are building up and up and up for when we finally get into the Sept, but I think that this division will let me get rid of the prep-up to have enough space left for when/if all players who ought to be there move into or close to the Great Sept of Baelor. 
> 
> Also, this means we will continue to jump back and forth between people and locations, but there is no other way to make it work, LOL. 
> 
> So yeah, I hope you are going to like this. 
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

“And you are sure you want to do this?”

Arya narrows her eyes at the older man who tries to appear passive as he keeps stroking the hawk’s feather over and over again, tracing the blueish plumage as though to make sure to never forget, asking those questions she would rather not have him think in the first place.

“I wouldn’t be here if I was uncertain about it,” Arya retorts as she wraps Needle around her thin waist. She couldn’t help but smile when Jaime handed it to her while she was still breaking fast, well aware that this is a gesture of a trust that seems rather rare to find in the Seven Kingdoms, even more so from a man who would have any reason to mistrust the world entirely.

“I am not questioning whether you think this is going to work. You seem painfully convinced of the circumstance,” Jaime argues, bobbing his right knee up and down. “I only ever mean to say that you can still back out of this – and go away. You won’t be safe here once we begin. Now that I know that there is a way through the sewers to the Great Sept of Baelor, I might just as well go on my own.”

“You will not. That was not the plan,” the young girl retorts.

“Plans can change,” Jaime mutters.

“And sometimes we do best holding on to them,” Arya argues.

“Fine.”

“ _Fine_.”

“Just remember what I told you,” Jaime says after a moment or two.

Arya nods her head. “Stay away from any crypts that have been sealed because we don’t want to get near the _green stuff of doom_.”

“Wildfire is a serious matter,” Jaime tells her with urgency in his voice.

“I know,” she sighs, offering a sad kind of grimace.

Though Arya wouldn’t have known some time back. The brunette always tended to believe in what her father told her, in what she heard being murmured over cups of mead and wine in the taverns. She was certain that Jaime Lannister was all what they made him out to be, dishonorable, cunning, a great swordfighter, surely, but also the man who shoved a sword through his king’s back, sat the Iron Throne to “keep it warm” for Robert to arrive and seize it – and still manage to smile. Yet, the last days with Jaime proved her wrong on some many of her own presumptions, because the man thereafter known as the Kingslayer saw to it that a city remained protected from a Mad King, even at the risk of his own reputation, of his own life.

The young girl knew that Aerys had his sick fancy of setting people on fire. Arya lost her grandfather and uncle to this before she could ever lay eyes upon them. However, that there are still hundreds of barrels of this wicked stuff hidden in the crypts? She wouldn’t have known, she never would have thought about it, even though it’s an undeniable truth like it is a fact that this man saved her life more often than not ever since their shared quest began.

When Jaime told her about the wildfire at last, his features tight to the point that the brunette thought of him as a sinew of a crossbow pulled too far back, she could barely believe what her ears clearly heard. Arya was honestly confused as to why he would leave it there, as he explained, until the older man painted a more vivid image of the sheer potency of the green liquid: Exposing it to the light of day, having just one barrel fall over may set an entire square aflame. And people go unexpected ways when they are frightened, something that surely would have happened, had they known what was in the barrels they then would have then carted out of the crypts and vaults, had Jaime given the order. And it was right at that moment that she came to understand why Jaime would keep that secret, regardless of the fact that this well would have explained his act of killing Aerys and his pyromancers. There was too much to dispose of, it was too risky to rid the city of it, so it remained best hidden away, even if that meant he had to seal it not just with wooden bars but also his own reputation. And as she can attest, Jaime took measurements the best he could, having put up barriers in front of the crypts where he could find the green substance, so that no one would accidentally stumble upon this weapon.

It may not have been a perfect solution, but Arya learned over time that you hardly ever have the chance to follow through with those perfect resolutions because the world is imperfect, cruel even, and that sometimes forces you into doing that which does least harm, sometimes, you can’t help but make a choice, knowing that it’s not perfect, so long you mean to prevent the harm the alternative may have come to bear.   

“I won’t touch anything, I promise. I didn’t last time either, so fret not. I will simply go in, and then find my way up to the Sept. And once the solar eclipse arises, you and Lady Brienne will ride up its stairs and hopefully knock some of the Queensguard over for good. I will open the gates to let you inside. And then you and her get to confront the Mad Queen and the Mad Sparrow. And if Meryn Trant _happens_ to fall on Needle, then that would be a treat for me alone,” Arya tells him as her little fingers wrap around her precious sword.

Because this time is now – and that means Aerys’ wildfire can remain right where it is, as a relict of a tyranny that came to an end of the tip of the blade of a man of his own Kingsguard, as he chose to protect country over king, people over king, life over death.

“That’s the spirit,” Jaime chuckles softly. “And what do you do if things go awry?”

“… I run for my life,” Arya answers, a reply not easily falling from her lips, as she would rather swear to fight, but both Jaime and Brienne kept telling her this over and over again: That her life is too important, too unlived, to go to waste for their mission, for them. And while Arya would like to disagree, she understands that those words are spoken out of care.

Because they learned the value of life in ways that most others won’t even begin to comprehend, and earnestly seem to detest the mere idea that someone may share in their cruel fate.

“Good. Make sure that you remember _that_ foremost,” Jaime tells her, more forcefully this time.

“You should hope foremost that I remember my passage back up to the Sept,” Arya answers, trying to lift a mood she finds hanging heavy on the top of her head.

“I do,” the older man mutters.

While it still seems strange to him, after Jaime was so set on the plan they carved into the tree, he found it all overshadowed by the light that granted him a glimpse at the woman he thought he would never see again, so long they are both alive.

Which is why even the hopeless man he considers himself wants to hold on to that chance, however small, however fragile, because even the tiniest of chances of a life beyond that day is more than he dared to think to ever have.

Times have changed, and the people he either let in or back into his life have framed it more than he would like to admit to himself at times.

_The Seven may help me! Next thing I know I may turn optimistic!_

Arya bites on her lower lip, coming to realize that there is no way to lift the mood, heighten the spirit as the many odds against them linger right out that door to where Tyrion went to wash himself in the barn in the back. Right outside, danger looms, right there, over those cobblestones, they can stumble and fall and never get back up again. And even if she decides to listen to Jaime’s urging and take flight if the mission is about to fail, chances are high that all their hope will be for nothing. There are no words of consolation that can make that fly away, she realized. No matter her own faith in that they can win, the dangers are there, the chances of losing are there, right outside, waiting, shuffling their feet, ready to strike, ready to attack.

_This may all be over, and yet…_

“Is something wrong?” Jaime asks with a grimace at the lack of reaction coming from the young girl normally very keen on having the last word in every conversation they tend to have. He watches her carefully as the girl starts to shift her weight from one foot to the other.

“You mean beside the entire situation that may very well lead to either all our imprisonment or death?” she huffs nervously.

_This may well be over and he doesn’t yet know…_

“Beside that, yes,” he answers, offering a curious kind of smile that is reassuring and concerned all the same.

Arya sucks in a deep breath, then slowly lets it escape through her nose, before asking, “… Jaime?”

“Yes, little wolf?”

“It’s Arya,” she corrects him.

The older man chuckles softly to himself. “Yes, _Arya_?”

 _It appears that the little girl can learn some lessons after all, if given the time_ , he thinks to himself somewhat amused. _Maybe not all is lost with Ned’s children._

“Can I ask something of you?” Arya then questions slowly, barely moving her jaws apart as she speaks.

“That depends on the favor you mean to ask,” he answers.

Arya nods her head, her small fists clenching and unclenching until she lets her left tighten around Needle’s grip. “Ask me for her secret.”

Jaime blinks at her, not quite having expected that request. “What?”

“Ask me for Brienne’s secret,” the girl repeats, her voice even and far steadier than she thought it to be.

Jaime leans his head back with a long sigh. “I _told_ you…”

“And I don’t care,” Arya interrupts him. “It’s as you say, we all may end up dying here. This very day may be your last. It may even be mine. And the Old Gods know that I do not wish to take that with me to my grave. Brienne couldn’t tell you even if she may find it in herself at last to change her mind and say it. There is just me to speak for her once her mouth is replaced by a hawk’s beak. So ask me, ask me and I will say it.”

“Too heavy a burden to carry?” he questions with a grimace Arya cannot read.

“Too important to let go to waste,” she replies in a soft voice, bowing her head. “Too precious to allow for it to simply be lost in time.”

“Brienne made you promise not to tell me, didn’t she?” Jaime argues, his eyes switching back and forth between her and the hawk sitting next to him on the bed, his fingers long since having stilled on the blueish feathers.

_I can’t betray her trust. I cannot, even if I wanted to know. I may be the one person she still dares to have faith in, against better judgment. I cannot ask for it. I cannot take that from her. I cannot…_

“I am rather an Oathbreaker than let her betray herself any longer,” the young girl answers with all the confidence she can gather. “Because that is what she is doing. She betrays herself, and it is tearing her apart ever since. So ask me.”

Jaime lets out a shuddered breath, cradling his right hand in his left, tracing the scars from the fall with the fingertips that used to take comfort from the soft touch of a hawk’s feathers, even though he doesn’t feel too much of that thanks to the damage the limb took in the fall from the tower.

When Tyrion suggested to tell him the first time in the tower, after his younger brother finally admitted to his part in this most cruel game, Jaime just sent him away, couldn’t even bear to look at his sibling. Because he felt betrayed. And that betrayal stung, stung so much that he could hardly breathe. Jaime couldn’t bear the thought to meddle in those affairs any further than he had already ended up thanks to Tyrion slipping up to Cersei. Because it was Brienne’s life that had been destroyed thanks to him, and the mere thought of taking that last bit away from her tore something down in Jaime that he didn’t even know was there until he could feel it pull on his heart.

Ever since that day, Jaime said to himself that if Brienne meant to keep something from him, it was her good right, that she will have had her reasons, because Brienne of Tarth does not lie easily, he should know.

 _The woman is too bad a liar anyway_ , he thinks to himself, looking back at the bird. _Though I seem to have fallen for the one she told, or rather did not tell at all._

However, it would be a lie to claim that Jaime never wanted to ask, never wanted to know what Brienne would mean to hide away. A part of Jaime is almost desperate to know, because this is the one thing Brienne kept from him, the one thing she would not speak about, when she would share so many things with him he knows that Brienne grew accustomed to keep hidden underneath her armor.

And that temptation didn’t die down over time, in fact only ever gained flame as of late. After all that Tyrion already told him, this may be the one explanation as to why Brienne stuck around him and the little chamber down Flea Bottom when the woman had a chance at making her luck as some lord’s lady wife, instead of rotting away in a tavern, below her status, below all that she is worth, if only to fence with him on occasion.

This may answer the question as to what kept her from living a good life as a married woman by disguising her ancestry, why she kept away from her own happiness.

And Arya may have the rights of it: Coming today, he may die, they all may die, and he wouldn’t ever know. He wouldn’t ever know what he may have changed in the past, if only just to protect her.

_But I cannot. I must not. She trusted me, she still does. I cannot. I must not. I cannot…_

 “I won’t ask you to burden yourself with becoming an Oathbreaker…,” Jaime means to say, but the young girl is quick to cut him off, her fist tight around Needle to the point that her knuckles turn completely white. “I don’t care for that nearly as much as I care about you and her, so ask me already! Ask at last, don’t be so craven!”

“Craven?” Jaime repeats. It has been quite some time since he was called that last.

It was when he didn’t know Brienne that well, just like she had many unanswered questions about him, which didn’t stop her from probing, however. Jaime, not wanting to share, did what he was so accustomed to doing: He locked it away, put up his walls, gave her a feigned smile, called her some names, and hoped that she would be too flustered to bother to ask again.

_But not Brienne of Tarth, stubborn thing she is._

She kept asking, kept prodding, not just with a tourney sword, but with her words, her cutting gazes with those deep blue eyes that always pierce something open deep inside of him.

And at some point, she caught him, challenging him when he wouldn’t give anything away, danced around those uncomfortable truths, a dance he had been dancing for far too long, to the point that his bones ached and his heart was yearning for a break that wouldn’t come – until it did.

_“Are you so craven?”_

This one question had taken Jaime so much by surprise, as they sat in the high grass outside the city gates, down their favorite creek, spoken with a subtle kind of force he didn’t yet know the woman inherited.

And that was when it poured out of him, slowly but surely, Aerys and his pyromancers, the wildfire, the smell of burned flesh, the fright and confusion of being obliged to protect a king when he had vowed to protect the kingdom, too. He told her about the shame he felt. He told her about Ned Stark and the judgment in his eyes, even though they both wanted to see the King dead, no doubt.

 _“By what right does the wolf judge the lion?”_ he kept asking, and while Brienne provided no reply for that, she gave the answers he didn’t know he was seeking by saying nothing, by listening, hearing his side.

It was this mild summer day in the high grass swinging in the breeze that he unburned himself in a way he hadn’t even dared to do it with his own siblings.

It was this mild summer day that he felt his steps grow lighter again.

It was this mild summer day that he saw a speckle of light in the darkness all around him.

And it was this very day that he took the hand that suddenly appeared before his eyes, his eyes transfixed on the big blue eyes looking back at him, holding no judgment, holding only him, just him and no one else.

_“Come now, get up. It’s time to rise again. You have laid it low long enough, I believe.”_

_“I thank you, for trusting me with this. I promise to keep this secret close to me.”_

_“Come.”_

_“Come now. Let’s fight again, Ser Jaime.” – “Jaime, just Jaime.”_

It was this day that he took her hand and let himself be pulled to his feet.

It was this day that he laughed to the point that it hurt, and he kept laughing anyway.

It was this day that he started living again, held on to the light as tight as he could, finding himself at ease, for once, being the Kingslayer, because she called him “Ser” and meant it.

It was this day that he started being himself again.

Because he stopped being craven.

Which begs all but one question: Is the young girl right? Was he, _is_ he scared for so very long, refusing to ask for a secret that seems to involve him about as much as it does Brienne? Is he too afraid of what new questions may arise from that revelation?

_Am I that craven after all? Was she right about me all along?_

“So ask me,” Arya says, now almost begging him. “Ask me and I will say it.”

Jaime lowers his gaze, sucks in a deep breath, then another, and another one again. He looks over to the bird sitting beside him, looking at him with the same kind of intensity he can remember from the woman who made him rise again.

_It’s time to get up, even if that means to fall low. It’s time to rise anew, if only for a day._

“… What is the secret Brienne kept from me and me alone?” he asks at last, his entire body tensed to the point that he feels like breaking apart under the pressure.

Arya blinks once, twice, not quite having expected that she would get him to demand the truth after all. Because the man is stubborn past the point of sense more often than not. However, it makes no difference now, which is why she sucks in a deep breath before uttering, “That she loves you, Ser. Always has. Always will. That is her biggest secret.”

Jaime’s eyes open wide at that, the air catching in his throat, his entire body closing in on itself for a moment, then another. “What? You are… you are joking now, aren’t you?”

_That cannot be… It was me who kept you from… For me you would… no, just no._

The former Lord Commander clutches at the hem of his chemise, finding his heart beat so strong that he can feel it all the way into his damaged fingertips.

_She has to be joking. This simply cannot be. It must not. It cannot, but why would she lie?_

“No joke, just truth,” the young girl answers. “I swear it. Brienne confessed it to Tyrion in the hopes to rid herself of those feelings, as you were a man of the Queensguard and she wouldn’t want to put your friendship at risk. It is the truth –and as you want to have justice ring from the Great Sept of Baelor today, you ought to know that this is truth, too. The plain truth is… she loves you, Ser, more than her heart can take at times, but she does, the Gods know it true.”

“That simply can’t be.” Jaime shakes his head, his fists clenching and unclenching.

_There is no way that she would… that she could… after all that happened… after all I was, I am… No, just no. This cannot be. It must not be._

_I told you, didn’t I, Brienne? That very day I started to live again? I told you who I am. Why didn’t that scare you away? How could you… for me?_

“It _can_ be! And why not? This is love, a love I haven’t seen that true for all my life. This is not duty, honor, or obligation. Whatever you may name it now instead. Even if she had not confessed to me, I knew it before Lady Brienne ever said the words out loud. I may be just a runaway girl, but I know what love looks like, and I can see it in her eyes the same way I can see it in yours at the mere mention of her name. This is love. That’s the simple if painful truth,” Arya says forcefully.

It’s a love that hurts.

It’s a love marked by sacrifice.

And yet, it is a love also marked by strength.

It’s a love that gives hope even in all this desolation.

“Why are you telling me this?” Jaime mutters, his voice leaving him, unable to meet the young girl’s gaze, unable to look at the hawk, unable to look anywhere but the ground, haunted by all the questions now growing out of the ground where there used to be just a single one, indeed the simpler one, of what that secret may be, but now it is about what her secret entails.

And Jaime has no single answer to any of them.

“Because I have a second favor to ask of you before I go,” Arya tells him, her voice slightly quivering.

“And what would that be?” Jaime asks hoarsely, tearing his gaze back to the brunette who changed his life so very much already, and seemingly can’t help but push him one step further than he would want to go, and then another one.

 _Just like her_ , he thinks bitterly, briefly stealing a glance at the bird.

“That you hold on to that. That you…,” Arya wants to say, but then her voice leaves her for a moment, cracks away as she finds even the last defenses fall inside herself. “That if everything looks bad, _you_ follow your own wish for Brienne. That _you_ follow the order you gave to me. Take leave, run – for _this_. For her love! If you can… don’t die a hero’s death. I had it with Syrio. He died protecting me, he died heroically, and what did it bring us in the end? Nothing. By the end of the day, he was dead and he did not come back as a bird or a wolf. Bravery is for the fools, bravery kills even the best, so please… don’t be a fool. Please don’t die, the both of you. I don’t want to lose you, too. Please don’t die. Just don’t die.”

Her entire body runs cold for a moment, a kind of dread clutching at her that the young girl tried to push away the best she could in the face of the mission ahead of them, but Arya finds walls long since crumbled and now coming down to the very foundation. She thought that she would only ever have herself ever since she made the choice to leave her family in favor of becoming a water dancer. Arya thought that this was her fate, to stay alone, to be only just a girl, but ever since her story became entwined with Jaime, with Brienne, with Tyrion, the young brunette came to see that she has others she cares for about as much as she does for her own clan.

And she doesn’t want to lose them, too.

She doesn’t want them to fade away like Syrio did.

She wants them to stay. 

Arya is surprised when she feels a strong if gentle hand against her shoulder, pulling her against what turns out to be Jaime. Her arms curl around him before she can even do so much as think of it, holding on, feeling the warmth affirming that he is still there, and the Old Gods may hear her plea, so that he will continue to be there.

Shock wrecks through her when the young girl finds tears welling up in her eyes, when she used to think that they were only ever a sign of weakness.

“Just don’t die,” she keeps muttering over and over.

_Just stay._

_Just stay with me._

“I fear I can’t make that a promise,” Jaime says, his voice suddenly soft, raw even, but all the more comforting to the young girl’s wounds she didn’t just reopened. “Or else I may end up an Oathbreaker… but… I can promise you to try.”

“Will you?” she asks weakly, looking up to him.

“I have something to lose, haven’t I?” Jaime tells her with a smile that won’t reach his glistening eyes.

“A lot.”

“More than I would have known some time back,” Jaime agrees. “So I thank you, Arya… for not letting me be craven.”

The girl untangles herself from the embrace, wiping away the salty tears. “No word of that to anyone.”

“It never would have crossed my mind. I have a reputation to defend to despise all wolves, even though I happen to be half myself,” Jaime snorts.

And just like that, Arya feels a bit lighter, and she ought to be, for when she is back in the sewers, back to where her journey began. Because she has to be swift, swifter than usual, the swiftest she has ever been.

Because she has a lot to lose, too.

“Good. So you… try not to become an Oathbreaker while I try not to get lost in the sewers. Just remember… _that_ truth when it comes to the worst,” she tells him, hoping, no, praying, that the words will reach the stubborn man she came to care about more than Arya would ever admit aloud.

Jaime nods his head slowly, though with emphasis. “I will. I promise.”

“So you don’t get a goodbye from me,” Arya warns him, sniffing softly. “I will see you again.”

“Alright. I will do my best to ensure that,” Jaime assures her.

Arya tightens her grip on Needle again, determination entering her body with every new breath she takes now, as finally, some of the weight of those fears left her body.

 _Some things just ought to be said_ , she learned.

Jaime watches as the girl shoulders her small bag and then makes out of the room without further ado. Once she is gone, he can feel his smile fading and his heart sinking. His eyes drift to the bird now standing on the windowsill, lightly moving its majestic wings, eyes fixed on him.

“All this time, Brienne? All this time?”

* * *

 

“My brothers and sisters! Today, we are going to change the world as we know it. Today is the day when the Seven will finally bathe in the glory of truth, in the glory they deserve. But… for that to happen, for us to have a second chance of ridding ourselves of all sin, to start over new, to wash ourselves off of all that makes us wretched creatures undeserving of the Seven Heavens, we have to unite, we have to rise,” the High Sparrow announces, his voice carrying all the way to the smallest of crevices of the chapel underneath the Great Sept of Baelor.

Once all is done, the High Sparrow will see to it that this gilded monstrosity is torn down, stripped bare of all its splendor and false idols.

_And it will be glorious._

He felt relief wash over him over and over when he took up the duty as the High Septon after the Queen approached him in one of his soup kitchens to feed the poor to make him an offer he didn’t dare refuse and found this chapel right at the heart of Sept. It put his weary heart at ease when he knew that he was about to corrupt himself for the sake of the greater mission, siding with a woman who would otherwise never have set foot in a soup kitchen because she sees them all as filth creeping at the bottom of her precious Iron Throne. However, the small chapel offered soothing ointment when the High Sparrow found himself struggling with his faith and what he was willing to do to serve it.

It is the oldest structure in King’s Landing, he learned. It predates Baelor the Blessed who gave shape to the monstrosity that took all away from the purity of the Faith and dipped it into gold and silks and extravagance. Men worshipped the Seven long before Baelor could besmirch it with his vanity, with the vanity of the people who found themselves in awe with the high statues, the marble floors, if only to capture a glimpse of their own reflection within, the polished gold, the heavy drapes, the elaborate ornaments, all those little escapes from what is true, from the one thing that matters – the faith of the Seven.

There was no name carved into the altar, there is no sure way to tell who knelt and prayed, who built this chapel, the heart of the Sept, beating unheard, and yet just as strongly as one made of flesh, if not with even greater fervor.

There was just this small chapel for them to come together and pray.

Their faith was clean.

_Strip away the gold and the ornaments, knock down the statues and the pillars, and this is what remains. Something simple, solid, and true. Knock down the pillars, bring them to fall. Knock down the one pillar upon which sits a crown. Bring down the false idols and all sin, so they may be absolved again, so they can be sent high into the air like a bird, a sparrow on its way to where it belongs._

And so, the High Sparrow only ever found it fitting the occasion to have his loyal brothers and sisters gathered here to unite them once more.

“You have patiently waited alongside me, for which I owe you my gratitude for all days to come, my brothers and sisters,” the High Sparrow continues, touching his chest. “We were once defeated, beaten down, chased out of the city, out of the country’s heart, even though that is our rightful place, for where else do we have our faith but in our hearts?”

The septas and sparrows nod their heads in unison to show agreement, feeling every word he speaks as undeniable truth.

_Because it is. The one truth that matters. The only truth._

Even if that means telling some lies along the way.

“We had to accept the role as a pillar rather than the chapel upon which the world should be built. And it was no easy choice to make, believe me that. Because I know the truth, I know the truth that you are to proclaim to the people of King’s Landing, the people betrayed by her own Queen,” he goes on to say, well aware that those good septas and septons would follow him even without the speech. However, the High Sparrow learned that there lies great power in the spoken word, that there is strength in solidarity, something entirely foreign to the likes of the Queen.

Though he will teach her what a people can do.

They will prove what the faith of a people can do to shake the very pillars upon which the world rests.

“However, the waiting is now over at last, my brothers and sisters. Coming today, there will be rubble and debris where once a pillar bearing the crown stood. Coming tomorrow, we will get to work and restore the world as it should be. And it will stand on just one pillar, on one chapel, because it is true, because it is good, clean, pure,” he continues, his voice swelling, growing louder, growing stronger.

Because this is their time. They have seeded and they have waited. And so it is their time to harvest from the ashes of an empire that only ever made it seem like there was care for the Faith, when truly, the Queen could not care less, the High Sparrow is well aware of that.

He was convenient to her by the time – and he made sure that he appeared as such. The High Septon willed to play the game, at least for a time, even if that meant breaking earthly principles that the Seven will do right judging him for.

_However, that will be up to the Gods to say – and not the likes of Cersei Lannister._

The High Sparrow looks at his loyal men and women, pride swimming up in his chest. Because those are his brothers and sisters whose faith is true, whose faith is as light as a bird, so that even when he fails, they will go on.

_The sparrows will find their way. They always do._

“This is not without danger, I know. There is a high risk involved in that we may end up failing, you know that as well as I do,” he carries on. “And yet, I also know that your faith is so strong that it can ring higher and louder than Baelor’s bells ever could. We may not see the kingdom of the Seven come, but the people after us will. Together, we can bring down an empire.”

The septas and septons nod their heads as one people again.

“Just remember that we are doing this for the Seven. We are doing it for their justice. We are doing it for the people who have suffered long enough under Kings and Queens who only ever kicked them down, broke their backs, and took from them instead of ever giving back in kind. The Seven have heard us and they have called to us to exorcise those demons,” the High Sparrow continues, making a step forward, to be closer to them, to let them know that he is marching with them.

Because, together, they can overthrow an empire.

“For that to happen, it is essential that we act as one, like the Seven are many while being one. Thus, when some of our brothers are alongside the Sept to let justice ring, I need all of you to carry that message all the way to the last corner of the city,” he tells them before gesturing at two Sparrows who have the seven-pointed star of the Faith carved into their foreheads to step forward. The young men proceed down the rows of septas and septons, handing out slips of parchment bearing the same wax seal – a sparrow.

“Once it is time, read the word of truth to the people of King’s Landing. Let them know of the false idol currently sitting the Iron Throne. Let it be known that this woman overthrew the King for her own gain, who committed incest with one of our own, a lad brave enough to stand up for his crimes to thus become a man,” the High Sparrow tells them with a grim expression, before turning his gaze towards Lancel, who stands to his right. He offers a reassuring kind of smile for a lad who proved so vital in all of this that the Seven will show mercy with him, he is most sure.

The High Sparrow sucks in a deep breath before speaking, “Your brother showed the bravery that the Queen cannot, because she sees herself as an idol, as a God, the Mother herself. Thus, it is only justice ringing true that she shall fall on the day of the celebration of the Mother. Let the word of truth ring through the city, so that every man, every woman, every child will stand with us when we bring this Queen of Sins down and make her atone for her sins.”

She will confess.

She will atone.

She will fall.

And they will rise.

“Go forth, my brothers and sisters, shout it from the rooftops! Let it be heard from the Guildhall of the Alchemists to the Street of Steel. Have every wretched whore and man laying with anyone beside his wife listen to it on Silk Street bear witness. All the way to Flea Bottom and beyond, let it be known! Today is the day of the Mother, today is the day of the Seven! Today, she falls! And today, we shall rise!”

“Rise!”

“Rise!”

“Rise!”

* * *

 

Tyrion opens the door leading up to their chamber, not surprised at his brother nervously pacing the room, sadly a picture far too familiar to him already, as he saw it to a painful degree when Jaime was locked up in the tower.

“There you are!” the older brother shouts out when he catches sight of Tyrion striding inside, quick to close the door behind him.

“Where have you been?” Jaime demands to know. “You said you were just going to wash up in the barn.”

“And I did that.”

“But that hardly took you that long, did it?” Jaime scoffs.

“I had some urgent business to attend in the city,” the younger man answers.

“What urgent business? Are you mad? What if someone saw you?” the older brother retorts angrily.

“No one would care about a dwarf walking the streets. Have you looked outside, brother? The entire city is in an uproar because of the festivities. I swear by the Seven, I could have walked those streets naked as on my namesday and they wouldn’t have noticed me. They are all pouring either towards the Great Sept and the route leading from the Red Keep to there. But anyway, it was actually for the better that I went. Because I saw something… startling.”

“And what would that be?”

“I saw way too many Sparrows.”

“There are more of them ever since we left,” Jaime huffs. “Far too many of them to my liking, but it’s a small wonder that the servants of the High Sparrow keep roaming the streets. Those are the days where they can shine and fill people’s heads with their nonsense about how everyone is a sinner and that they are the only ones who know the way out of that.”

“I know all that, but they walked _with purpose_ , you see. They spread out strategically throughout the city. And I saw that some of them had parchments on them, all of which bore the same wax seal with a sparrow,” Tyrion tells him.

“So you think they want to proclaim something?” Jaime asks with a grimace.

He would rather not think about those things. There is far too much on his mind already.

“I think we may have chosen a truly decisive day to make our move,” Tyrion comments pensively.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Jaime asks, cocking an eyebrow at the younger man.

“I told you, Lancel seemingly ran to the High Sparrow before I could get him to testify against Cersei,” Tyrion answers. “And let’s not make any mistake, the High Sparrow only ever worked together with our dear sister for his own purposes, I am quite sure.”

Jaime scoffs, “Don’t they all?”

“Exactly,” the younger brother agrees, nodding his head. “But think about it. He has been sitting on this _most delicate_ matter for _how_ long now? Why would the pious High Septon wait so long, you tell me? He has all the evidence that could harm our sister in _severe_ ways. It’s as you said, the people of King’s Landing are readily clinging onto their grey robes for guidance precisely because the man understands to make them feel heard, even though he is the one inducing their fears. The High Sparrow is one of the Pillars. And I think that of the two, the people would readily choose him over our dear sister.”

If confronted with the choice between two devils, people will always choose the one that offers soup and bread over the one offering no more than more beating and that you are granted the right to bend the knee to her. That is a fact their sister seemingly never learned, or rather, resolutely refused to learn, believing her status as Queen irrevocable fact instead of what it is: A deal between the Crown and the people.

“Just that they are not free to choose,” Jaime huffs.

No, they assumed power, even though it wasn’t theirs to have, and did anything within their abilities to keep it. Which has Jaime think that they truly deserve each other. The High Sparrow may like to hide himself behind his faith, just like Cersei may like to hide behind her claim that she is doing it all for the sake of the realm, but deep down, they are most concerned with their own pursuits.

And if it weren’t for their condition, Jaime would quite fancy watching the two tearing each other apart.

“I wouldn’t find it at all farfetched to assume that he will mean to make it known at last that our dear sister… did some many great bads, now that there is such a public gathering, a rare occurrence for our sister, we both know that,” Tyrion says.

“She never moved past the one time they threw shit at the Royal Palanquin,” Jaime snorts, finding himself smiling, if only for a fraction of time.

He learned that those small moments can turn oh so sweet, now looking back on all the bitterness they were forced to swallow over the years. After all this time, thinking back to how the Queen stalked through the Red Keep like a caged animal, demanding for the “traitor” who dared to throw the shit to be brought to justice, though there was no way to find out who it was, as it was most certainly more than one peasant who proved to have a good aim.

“That was one of the best days of my life. I thought she would combust!” Tyrion chuckles. “But the point is rather this: Cersei has kept away from public gatherings. She will not meet commoners unless it is in her own realm of the Red Keep, where our dear sister has all advantages and resources on her side. No one will make an attempt on her life within those walls. However, today is one of those rare occasions where she will join the High Sparrow in the Great Sept of Baelor. Cersei will stand before the people without the palace’s shield. They will see her, and she won’t have the advantage of the protective walls of the Red Keep.”

“While this is our sister we are speaking of, I will say that I find that only ever serving her right,” Jaime mutters.

Because that is what she did to them. Cersei took their security away, tore down the walls of their very being, left them open like a wound, and then shoved another knife into the bleeding flesh, just to be sure to do as much damage as she could.

_Maybe I should have found the man whom I saw throw shit at her palanquin, if only to give him a medal for the act._

“Most certainly so. So… the Sparrows walking on with purpose, spreading throughout the city tells me that the High Sparrow may be onto something. While he would likely rather not have it be known what he has done to the two of you, denying you a Trial by Faith when you asked for it, he would want the accusations against Cersei out there, and today would be the perfect day for that. If I were him… I would do just that,” Tyrion ponders.

“To overthrow the other Pillar,” Jaime whispers, brushing his fingertips over his chin, contemplating.

“As I said, if I had plans to dethrone her, _that_ would be my way of going about it, too. The Sept is a confined space, controlled by the Faith. People will be present to hear it. And they can make that spread – _fast_ – if the Sparrows simultaneously proclaim it in the streets, with the aid of their little parchments. This can catch fire fast, faster than wildfire.”

“So you are trying to tell me that we now also stumbled into a revolution?” Jaime huffs, not at all liking the sound of that.

“Quite possibly, yes,” Tyrion affirms.

“Splendid,” the older brother snorts. “The last thing we needed in all of this chaos.”

“You should see the good in it,” the younger man argues, holding up his index finger in a lecturing manner.

Jaime scoffs. “What is good about that, you tell me?”

“Well, do you sincerely think that our dear sister won’t see that coming in some way at least? The woman went as far as she did based on the sheer fright that the throne may go over to you or Brienne. If we are lucky, they are going to tear each other apart before we ever step into the Sept,” Tyrion points out with a smirk.

“Well, if they die before we get to confront them, we are damned,” Jaime objects.  

“True again,” Tyrion says, letting out a shuddered breath. “Revolutions are tricky things.”

“I am not interested in revolutions,” Jaime tells him. “The stakes are far higher than that already.”

* * *

 

Arya lets herself be taken by the crowd swiping across the streets and narrow alleyways leading up to the Great Sept of Baelor.

If anything good came of it that they chose this day to carry out their plan, then it is that there are far too many people out in the streets for the City Watch or the Queensguard to have much of a chance to capture a young girl, walking on in breeches and with a sword wrapped around her narrow waist.

Though she can’t help but think that Lady Brienne had the rights of it when she told her upon entering the city that, sometimes, all it takes is a change of perspective, because against the odds of her having left the city for no more than a few days’ time, she finds her view skewed a lot, and for the better, she wants to think.

Because, even though the people will not know it, even though the people can’t see it in her walk, in the way her hair is still bound back, or how she now holds close to her the gift from Jon that means so very much to her, she is back in the city that forgot all about Arya Stark.

She is back as Arya Stark, for all to see, but for no one yet to comprehend, other than herself.

She ran from the city as Mouse, as Arry, a little thief who was only just a girl, mistaken for a boy, who had no one but herself to hold on to when nights were cold or when food was scarce.

And now she returned as Arya Stark, as Arya, someone who is more than just a girl, who is being held on to by people she didn’t know some days back, but who keep her safe and care for her against those very odds all the same.

Even if all is meant to go awry, Arya can’t help the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips as she lets herself be carried forward by the crowd, eager to catch sight of the Two Pillars after all this time.

Her head shoots up when she catches sight of white cloaks, even more so when she hears the voice of the bastard who took Syrio and his coin.

_Meryn Trant._

Arya’s fingers curl around Needle’s grip and hold on tight. She grits her teeth to the point that they ache. There he is, walking on, bossing the other knights around.

“… As the Queen said…”

“… No one leaves before her…”

“… Get moving now! Faster!”

The young girl watches the dark-haired man as he pushes one of the Queensguard knights against the shoulder pad to make him move forward faster, seemingly because he did not take his order at once, which does strike Arya as odd.

After all, that bastard calls himself Lord Commander these days, even though he seems less deserving of the title than any thief creeping around the black cells.

There he is, the man who took her Syrio away from her.

There he is, still the same, with the same self-serving attitude.

There he is, so incredibly close.

The Old Gods will know how often she thought about how sweet it would be to bring Ser Meryn to justice at last, to have him pay for what he took from her with a smile on his lips, joking about how easy it was to cut that “Braavosi bastard” down, even though the plain truth is that the fight went on for long and Syrio had nothing but a wooden sword to defend himself with.

Arya’s heart beats faster as her fingers keep curling around Needle.

In the crowd, she may even have opportunity to see this bastard be brought to justice. Her sword may be small, a Braavosi blade, but Needle is also swift, is silent, effective. One stab in the right spot may end it all.

 _Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Quick as a snake. Strong as a bear. Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow_ …

She could quickly disappear into the crowd.

She could avenge the man she gave so much for to be around him.

She could become a shadow.

She could be no one.

She could mutter _Valar Morghulis_ one more time as he would fade away.

She could do all of that before commencing to the Great Sept of Baelor.

And it is tempting, a fantasy from not at all so long ago, to finally get revenge for the man who meant so very much to her that she was willing to run away from her family only just to become his apprentice.

He is right there.

Right within her reach.

_So close, so very close._

A dove shrieks above her head, pulling young Arya out of the thoughts pulling her away from the street, over to where the knights are marching towards the Great Sept of Baelor, back to the cobblestones under her feet.

Arya starts picking up speed again, leaving Meryn Trant to his yelling and cursing.

If the Gods are true and just, they will judge him, too.

But for now, she has more urgent business to attend.

And so, a young girl disappears, unknown to the rest of the city, into the sewers below with one swift jump.

After all, she is no longer just a girl.

She is Arya Stark of Winterfell.

And that girl wants to see two people close to her finally getting their justice.

The past can wait.

Because it is their future that matters now.

And so she takes a dive.

* * *

 

“I don’t like this,” Jaime mutters, nervously pacing.

“You just don’t like to be the one waiting,” Tyrion chuckles softly. “You’d rather do it all on your own, but it seems you have to rely on us for that matter.”

Jaime sucks the inside of his cheek into his mouth. “It’s not having to rely on someone that gives me fright, it’s the fact that I brought so many people the Queen and the High Sparrow want to see dead right into the heart of the city.”

“The girl will do just fine,” the younger man assures him. “And anyway, she is a Stark. I thought you were sick of those anyway.”

“That one’s different. Though she has far too much of her father already, for which she is hardly to blame, though. Honorable Eddard Stark likely makes sure to indoctrinate all of his children with his dogged sense of honor.” Jaime lets his gaze wander up to the sky. “The moon’s still rather far away.”

“Which is why you should be glad. That means Arya has plenty of time to find her passage to the Sept and be in place for when the solar eclipse is happening,” Tyrion argues.

“Maybe I should have gone with her…,” the older brother ponders, but the younger one is quick to interrupt that train of thoughts, “They will recognize you presently, Jaime. It is better that way, not just for the sole sake of seeing Cersei’s distraught face. You two ought to ride in together, so that the curse is broken at once. They have to see the two of you. If we have you in there while Brienne is still here… that only heightens the chances that you will be dead before she ever makes it inside the Sept.”

Jaime scoffs. “And you call _me_ pessimistic.”

“I am rational,” Tyrion corrects him.

“And disheartening all the same,” the older man sighs.

“That’s the charm of rationality, I assume. It sucks the life out of everything,” Tyrion comments. “But anyway, let us not dwell on the sorrows of rationality, and instead focus on the good like those optimistic bastards out there tend to do it. I have a gift for you.”

Jaime frowns at the sudden announcement, as there seem to be far too many of those within just a single day. “A gift? Is that why you stayed away?”

“Not really. I just wanted to see the people swarming like busy little bees,” Tyrion chuckles as he walks over to the bed. Jaime watches his younger brother as he kneels down.

“You got some free wine,” the older man comments.

“I am perfectly sober, but I found it right to gather some for celebration… or to cope, whichever it may be,” Tyrion snickers.

“I surely hope that your gift is not another deal you made in my absence,” the older brother comments.

“No, no such thing. Well, it’s less than a gift than… a re-gift, shall I say?” Tyrion tells him before crawling under the bed to take out a long wooden chest. “There it is.”

His small fingers are quick on the lock before pushing the lid back to reveal that which lies underneath. The older man watches every of Tyrion’s motions, though his mind is soon transfixed on the red velvet cloth into which the content of the chest seems to be wrapped. Tyrion pushes back one fold, then the other. And once Jaime’s eyes catch sight of what lies underneath it, he is struck by the strange familiarity he is met with instantly.

“Valyrian steel,” Jaime mutters, letting his fingers slide over the broad side of the blade Tyrion holds out to him, to listen to its familiar, if slightly different song, though he can feel it resonate deep within him the same way it is with the sword he shares with Brienne.

“The twin blade to your Oathkeeper, a bit smaller and lighter in weight, but of the same material, born from the same blade from which it was forged at Father’s request,” Tyrion explains.

“How comes I didn’t know there was a second?” Jaime asks with a frown, his fingers instinctively curling around the sword’s grip.

Tyrion shrugs at him. “I didn’t tell you.”

“How is that?” the older man wants to know.

“I was frustrated with you by that time. I was stuck with Father, you might recall, and inside my mind, I found that you should have long since convinced him to let me go with you to the capitol.”

“I tried,” Jaime argues.

“I know that _now_ , I didn’t back then. Which is why my fury in you, on that matter, was truly ill-founded, but it was there nonetheless,” Tyrion explains, watching his brother take up the blade that he should likely given to him long time ago. “As Father grew ill, he had me summoned to his chamber. He gave me this sword as a last spite, you see? Because he had no use for it anyway. He knew he was close to death. Cersei wouldn’t have wanted it, and Gods know she wouldn’t know how to hold the thing even if she tried, and what would you do with two swords? He had seen his entire empire meant to last a thousand years crumble before his eyes as Cersei did not give him heirs to take over the Rock and you were stuck in the Kingsguard. By that time, Father had resigned himself to the fate that his empire would fall. And of course he blamed me for it. So he gave me the sword, telling me that it made no difference anyway, that he would have loved to give it to the future Lord of the Rock, but that this was not bound to happen.”

“He was such a charming character,” Jaime scoffs.

He hated his father for some many things, but that was perhaps the gravest of them all. Jaime loved his little brother with a fierceness that he always found natural to feel for your younger siblings, for your kin, even more so as Tyrion was in more need of protection than most others. However, it did not come natural to Cersei, and even less so to their Father, from whom she likely learned most of her behavior towards Tyrion even before she left for King’s Landing to climb the Iron Throne as Robert’s bride. And a part of him had always felt guilt when he agreed to Cersei’s suggestion to join the Kingsguard under Aerys so that they would be together at court, just that it never came to that, and Gods know what it was good for. However, the guilt remained, because Jaime knew that with him in King’s Landing, there was no one to protect Tyrion from his own kin, no matter Jaime’s efforts from afar.

That made it almost a strange kind of fortune to have Tyrion relocate to the capitol after their father passed away, alone and with his wondrous empire in ruins, though the man never knew that he was the one who brought about its demise with all of his misgiving, with his mistrust in an able man who just happened to be short in stature.

_You would likely have an empire for two thousand years if you had left it up to Tyrion instead of hoping for your fool of an older son to give up on his folly of wanting to become a knight. And doesn’t that make a fool of all of us?_

“I didn’t even want to mention the sword to you when you came to Casterly Rock at last. I just put it away and didn’t touch it until I took all of my belongings that I could gather to the capitol, reckoning that this would be my place to live now. And then I took it again when I was cast out of the city, though I earnestly forgot it until I cleaned out the storage to throw in the men of the Queensguard, but Father may have been right on that one matter…,” Tyrion means to say, but Jaime interrupts him, “He was not.”

“On that, he was,” the younger man insists. “It is lost on me, but you two can put it to better use. So I think my best use is to give it to the both of you.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Jaime murmurs, because he knows very well how much it must cost Tyrion to admit his shame, share that secret with him, and then pass this gift, even if presented to him in mockery, over to Jaime, in the vain hope that it will turn all that badness into something good at last.

“ _Good_ , so just take it and don’t ask further questions about it. I won’t shed a tear over not having to carry it around with me anymore,” the younger brother says. “Do you want me to leave this one for Brienne, then?”

“No,” Jaime answers promptly. “Oathkeeper is hers.”

 _Always_.

Jaime takes the blade out of the box and rotates it in his hand a couple of times, getting used to the weight, the way the sword serves as an extension of his arm. “But this here could suit me fine.”

Surprisingly, it may suit him better than Oathkeeper did as of late. While Jaime wouldn’t want to miss the sword, as it made the difference between victory and loss some many times on their quest, he had to realize rather painfully that his arm took trouble in wielding a blade that heavy for longer periods of time. This one is light enough to give him less pain for when he has to wield it for a longer time, however, which may make the difference between life and death today.

_You truly died a fool, Tywin Lannister, but perhaps your folly will end up helping your sons after all, so thank you, if only for this sword – and my little brother whom you may have hated, but whom you thence only ever made me love ever the more, to the point that it hurts._

“Seems like our Father was good for something after all,” Tyrion chuckles softly, watching his brother move the blade to familiarize himself with it, though the younger brother has no doubt that he will fare just fine. He saw Jaime fight with only as much as a stick one time. The man knows how to handle himself.

 _And the Seven may protect him in that Sept regardless of that_ , he thinks to himself. _Because, sometimes, even your strong and able children need your help. Because the world of broken things is also for the damned, for those whose scars you don’t see._

“He had a fine taste when it came to these blades,” Jaime agrees, his eyes still fixed on the blade, but then his gaze shifts over to the younger man next to him. “I thank you, Tyrion.”

The younger brother shrugs his shoulders with a smile both know at once he doesn’t truly mean. “As I said, it’s lost on me.”

“No, it isn’t,” Jaime insists, looking the dwarf deep in the eye so that he understands.  “Nothing is, even if Father wanted you to believe that.”

Tyrion flashes a small, almost shy kind of smile at his older brother, hearing words again that are in fact an echo of the many assurances he heard from Jaime over the years, that even if Cersei and their father saw no worth in him Jaime did.

And now it’s back.

Now he is back.

And if the Seven show mercy, for which Tyrion prays, he will come back today, too.

Apparently, this sword is a gift that keeps on giving already.

* * *

 

“My good friend,” Cersei says as the High Sparrow walks into the great hall, dressed in fresh if still rough linen, his feet bare, and his eyes gleaming with what the Queen well knows to be misgiving.

_Because, most certainly, he is not a good friend._

“I am so glad you could answer my sudden call to come here,” she tells him, offering a smile she has offered so many times already that it tires her face.

“I will always find time for the Queen, and if not, I will make it,” the High Sparrow answers, slightly bowing his head.

 _Though he never truly bowed_ , Cersei notes to herself. _I should bear that in mind for later. Because all ought to bow for their Queen._

“That is good to hear,” Cersei chimes, easing out a wrinkle in her black dress. “I hope all went well with the preparations on your side?”

“Oh, most certainly,” the High Septon answers. “Everything went according to plan.”

“That is a relief to hear. And I seem to have some good news to bring as well,” Cersei tells him, folding her hands in front of her stomach.

“Oh, of what kind, then?” the older man asks.

“Urgent news have reached me, only moments before I gave the call to have you summoned. As you will recall… we ran some unexpected trouble with regards to… let’s say, _our little secret_?” Cersei says, not surprised at the shock washing over the older man’s face almost instantly.

 _Predictable_.

“The beast of a man,” the High Sparrow snarls, feeling a shudder run through him at the mere mention of the man who succeeded in making him feel something that he thought he had rid himself long, long time ago.

 _Fear_.

“Yes. As I promised you, I made it my personal obligation to see after it that he is caught and brought to the Queen’s justice. I have enlisted a very able hunter to catch the man who is still a wolf by night after he was so wickedly cursed by this wretched woman, who… thankfully is gone for a long time, even though her curse lives on,” the Queen goes on to say. She reckoned that it might be for the best to make the matter seem more urgent than it is.

While Cersei will mean for her brother to be brought to _her_ justice for his betrayal, she will gladly leave the High Sparrow under the illusion that he has any say in this.

In fact, leaving the man under some blissful illusions has been her game for quite some time already, and as tired as she may be of having to appease this lunatic who believes that he can stand his ground against a queen, who believes in his visions with such passion that he remains blind to the circumstance that they are all just illusions, too.

 _So very predictable_.

“So you have seen him?” the High Sparrow wants to know, biting his lower lip, trying to calm his fast-beating heart.

 _Now is not the time to fall into a frenzy_ , he reminds himself. _Now is time for the revolution. Everything else will have to wait._

“Not yet. My men reported that the people are eager to hail the Mother, which is why the streets are filled with our good people. And I don’t think we would want them to see _our little secret_ walking down the streets, because my brother… is well known around the Seven Kingdoms. You might recall what Ser Meryn was forced to do to keep our secret… a secret.”

“Yes, I do remember, Your Grace,” the High Sparrow answers.

“Unless, of course, you mean to chance it. Would you rather have me summon the hunter presently after all? Delay the celebration perchance? I wouldn’t want to make such decision over your head, my good friend. After all, we are the Twin Pillars, finally able to relieve some of the burden we were made to carry thanks to the woman’s dark magic,” she assures him, though her words are not intended as any kind of reassurance. The Queen mastered the arts of wrapping a threat into kind words a long time ago, though that charade will come to an end today as well, and her entire body is longing for the freedom, of not having to pretend anymore, of not having to appear as though she cared for this wretched man and his visions, for his fury over her brother, for the people he feeds in the soup kitchens, all of them, every single one of them.

Coming today, Cersei will finally have no one but herself to feel concern for. She will no longer have to pretend past the point of something she has been saying for years without ever slipping up on her smile.

Coming today, a new reign will begin, and there will be just one Pillar standing, the one that matters, the one that is unafraid to use its power, exploit it, even.

Coming today, there will be no doubt anymore that she is the one true Queen and that no one will come after her so long she draws a living breath.

_Queen I shall be._

_And there will come no other._

_Younger or more beautiful – it won’t make a difference._

_Because they are either gone or will soon get to know my rage._

_So they will be too scared to come near the Throne, let alone dare to cast me down._

_Maggy was wrong, and today is going to prove it._

_You can beat destiny, you just have to be ruthless enough._

_And I will be._

_Queen I shall be._

_Queen._

_Queen._

_Queen!_

“No, no, we should… handle the matter with discretion, I agree,” the High Sparrow answers with a grimace. While his heart couldn’t beat higher at the news that this man will finally be brought to the justice of the Gods, it does remind the septon of the sin he committed for the sake of the revolution.

Because there was no trial by faith for the witch, just like there was none for the beast of man.

The woman was executed before she made her confession, and he was not around for when that happened, to pay tribute to the woman who was his gateway to rise to the top of a pillar to tear down the other once he brought it to shaking.

And if those news were to travel through the streets before he can make his announcement, the High Sparrow is unsure whether the people would follow him as readily, as they rely on him carrying out the will of the Gods, of abiding by their laws.

And that night, they did not.

 _But it was witchcraft_ , he reminds himself. _For all her wrongs, the Queen had the rights of it. This stubborn woman who spat on my septas and who took every beating without crying just once cast magic. And magic is forbidden under the laws of Gods and men. She had a chance to confess, many of them, and she did not. She was dangerous. She had to go, even if that meant bending the laws. We had to. We had no other chance._

Regardless, the High Sparrow would have wished that his Sparrows would have found the beast of man rather than the soldiers, or hunters, loyal to the Queen. Then all could have been handled in the privacy and purity of the chapel below the Great Sept of Baelor, and the man would have been brought to justice for no one but the Gods to hear and see and bear witness to.

However, if he plays it right, that may be the result after all.

It’s a game that he will have to play for just a small while longer.

 _Soon, all games will be over, however_ , the High Sparrow tells himself, finding his breath evening out at the thought. _Soon, this kingdom will fall and we can start rebuilding. And then I will finally find the time to repent for the sins I have committed for the Faith, though I am certain that the Seven will forgive us. Because it is their will we carry out._

“That’s what I was thinking as well, my good friend,” Cersei says, pulling the High Sparrow out of his thoughts, back to the woman dressed in finest garbs, wrapped in finest silks, embellished with a false idol which is herself, the crown sitting upon her royal head.

_But not for much longer._

“And once the sun has set… we will see to it that this man is finally brought to the Queen’s justice,” Cersei adds.

“And that of the Faith,” the High Sparrow corrects her, though he knows it’s a useless endeavor, considering that this woman seems past the point of salvation, for all that he learned from Lancel’s confessions and what he bore silent witness to.

“Of course, of course. It is the same thing in the end, is it not?” Cersei argues with a mild kind of smile.

 _It is certainly not_ , the High Sparrow thinks, but says instead, “Of course, Your Grace.”

“So you trust this hunter?” he goes on to ask after a moment of silence stretching between them as they continue their spiel of pretending to stand as one, when both long since know that they stand on opposite sides.

“My own men saw the wolf, I have no doubt that he brought me what I asked of him. In contrast to _some_ , he has proven to be true to his word. Like you are so true to your word at all times,” the Queen tells him, before reaching out to grasp his hand.

A small smile flashes across her lips as she can spot the hint of surprise in his posture, but she learned over time that something as small as a touch can make a big difference.

 _Even if, sometimes, that touch has to be more, much more_ , Cersei thinks to herself. _But in the end, it’s just a touch and a feel. What does it matter if it is in exchange for a kingdom all for myself?_

Lancel was wax in her hands. It was almost too easy, to the point that she found herself lying on her bed in her chamber, laughing to herself at the ridiculousness of it all. Even Jaime showed more reluctance back when she convinced him to join the Kingsguard under Aerys, and that was almost painfully easy already. But the likes of Lancel? Too innocent to know what he is heading into, and too much of a man to resist the urges once a robe falls and a Queen offers to come to bed with him.

And after that, it was no more than quick assurances of an affection he should have known she never could have born for this lickspittle of a cousin, had he been right in his mind. As though the Queen couldn’t help but fall into bed with a scrawny lad who didn’t ever put _it_ in before she granted it, having him believe that it was miraculous, when in fact the only thing she found rising was her spirit over how easy it was, _and how fast it was over, too_.

A brush of the fingers, a kiss to the corner of the mouth, it was enough to have him fill the wineskin for Robert with what she handed to him in the secrecy of her chamber, a murmured “I need you now,” and an almost tender “you have to be strong for the both of us, I need your protection, Lancel, please, do it for us, for our love,” without laughing at the sheer travesty of the thought. Yet, it all made sense inside the lad’s head, long enough for her to get what Cersei wanted and knew she was destined to get ever since Maggy spat out her prophecy along with the blood she had sucked from her thumb.

And once Lancel had served his purpose, the Queen was fast to rid herself of him for good, and just to be sure that nothing would seep past the Red Keep, over to where the lions are carved into the stone, her old home, she ensured that Lancel’s father and castellan of the Rock was disposed of without anyone’s notice.

_Qyburn mixes the best potions after all._

Though with the High Sparrow, the Queen is aware, the situation is quite different from what it was with her foolish cousin who wanted to believe that he was worth a Queen’s affection. For the High Sparrow, the act is another part to play, another voice to sing in. He won’t ever want what Lancel took after just a bit of convincing and unrobing. That is far from the septon’s fancy. However, even the man who claims to want nothing but the purity of poverty has unspoken desires.

_Everyone does._

And for that man, Cersei knows, the best thing is to have him believe that he is about to get what he wants is to act as though she had to please him, when truly, none of it will matter once they are in the Sept. In there, all is going to be decided.

In there, her justice will ring and he will have to bow.

_As everyone should._

_As everyone will._

But for now, she will put up the act a small while longer, will have him believe that she is that naïve, that the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, in any capacity still has to rely on a religious fanatic who, in fact, only ever fell for the illusions he wanted to believe himself: That there is just one Pillar, one Queen.

“I know that this must have shaken our good friendship quite a bit, as it would have been my responsibility to bear to make sure that either the curse is undone so he can repent or… at the very least ensure that his resistance to the dark magic does not catch on,” Cersei goes on to say, patting the back of his hand gently.

“It is as you often say, Your Grace, trust and loyalty are hard to find these days,” the High Sparrow tells her.

“That is sadly true,” she agrees, flashing a smile both likely know she won’t ever truly mean. “Though I hope that the good news will put your mind to ease, plagued by visions and hurtful memories of my brother falling for the dark arts. If not, Qyburn will surely give you some more of the special tea he makes for you. Shall I have him summoned?”

_Be my guest to spiral even deeper into your own illusions, old man. You have been under a spell for so long that I sometimes find it hard to believe that you still mean to rise against me. But then again, perhaps it’s the fate of the delusional to try to rise against a power they cannot beat._

Because only power is power.

“Oh, don’t bother, Your Grace. That is too kind of you to offer, but I just had one vision as of late, and it was a grand one,” the High Sparrow replies.

That woman still wants to believe that she is the reason for his visions, but that could not be further from the truth. While the High Sparrow’s knowledge of toxins is certainly not of the level as that of her most loyal Lord Hand, he can tell apart the smell of freshly brewed tea and something mingled with faint traces of basilisk’s blood. And once he realized, he knew well to play his part in the madness she wanted to see rise in him with every tea she served.

Though the only one who ever fell for that trick was the ground and plants which sucked up the potion when the Queen was too busy bathing in what she perceived as her own smartness. And while Cersei seems to pride herself being her father’s truest child, she certainly lacks a lot of the man’s cunning, because the High Sparrow came to see time and time again that the Queen wants to take everything to the extreme, whereas her father was clever enough to seek slowly.

However, if the Queen never seemed to possess one ability, one virtue, then it was patience. And that, by contrast, is something the High Sparrow has in plenty.

“Oh, was it? What was it about?” the Queen asks, tilting her head to the side slightly.

“The future of the city,” the High Septon answers.

“I hope it was not too grim?”

“It was glorious. Pure,” he replies.

“That is a relief to hear, my good friend. I would assume that you wish to be present for when Ser Jaime is brought to justice at last, yes?” she says.

“Most certainly.” The High Sparrow nods his head.

“Very well,” she agrees, letting go of the man at last, feeling relief wash over her momentarily. “It seems that the Mother is in our favor at last, finally bringing him back into the city, and that on this very day. Isn’t it fortunate?”

“Praise be to the Mother indeed,” the High Septon speaks, touching his chest.

_Praise be indeed, for when her justice will ring. And it is not that of the Queen, for she is no mother, and no mother of this nation._

“My good friend, I still have two favors to ask of you, if you don’t mind,” Cersei then says, which takes the High Sparrow a bit by surprise, even though he tries his best not to let it show.

“You are the Queen,” he tells her.

“In fact,” she chuckles softly, relishing the sound of those sweet words. “I know that this comes very late, but do you think it is possible for me to make an announcement while we are in the Sept? It won’t take that long, but I found it the right occasion.”

“And what announcement would that be?” the septon wants to know.

“Some changes in the Queensguard that I wouldn’t mean to keep from our good people,” the Queen explains. “It wouldn’t take up too much time, but as the Faith and the Crown, as the Two Pillars are so entwined, I said to myself that it seems right to have it be known in the eyes of the Seven, as our Queensguard stands vigil not just for me, but for our shared goal to protect the Faith.”

“Oh, certainly we will find some time for that, I have no doubt about it,” the High Sparrow answers, truly not caring too much about that. Shall she announce whatever soldier she sees fit for the position of her protection.

All is going to end today, and after that, only the Seven will be there to shield her from the inevitable.

“How gracious of you, my friend,” Cersei says with a smile she does not mean, because even if he had said no, she would have found her way.

She always finds her way, and even if she does not, Cersei will have all weed cut away, burned away, to find her path ahead.

If that means leaving ashes behind, then so be it.

Devil-may-care, but Cersei will see to it that her last step on this planet will be as the one true Queen, with only her wearing a crown, with only her ascending to the Iron Throne, without a question, without a doubt.

She will burn it into their skins like the Sparrows like to fashion themselves with their ridiculous carvings into their foreheads.

And they will wear it as a badge of pride.

_I will see to that._

“And what other favor would you mean to ask of me?” the septon questions.

“I know that we discussed to meet up only just before the Sept to enter, but I thought it might be a better sign to give to the people of King’s Landing that the Two Pillars are standing strong together, stronger than ever. Which had me thinking that it might be good if we walked in one procession towards the Sept,” Cersei tells him. “And now that you are already here, I’d think it only the more convenient for the both of us.”

_Leave him in the false belief that the Crown would ever accept marriage to the Faith. He will have to learn the lesson eventually that the Crown needs no man, no Faith, just the crown and a queen to wear it._

_Queen I shall be._

_Queen._

_Queen._

_Queen!_

“If that is what Your Grace wishes, I will be happy to comply,” the High Sparrow tells her.

“You can’t imagine how glad I am to hear that,” the Queen sighs. “It will be the right sign to send to our good people.”

_Just not the one you think, old man._

“We have to stand strong together in times such as these,” she adds.

But foremost, we ought to make sure that the sparrows can’t flock together as much, so that, instead, only the vital ones gather in the Sept.

So that they will learn at last what power truly means.

* * *

 

Waiting was always a double-edged sword for Jaime. Cersei often accused him of hotheadedness, of not thinking things through, reminding him time and time again that he was the kind of boy who would jump off the cliffs at Casterly Rock without a moment of hesitation. And to this day, Jaime does not consider himself a great strategist the likes of his brother. He listens to his gut more often than not. However, on other occasions, Jaime found himself taking almost painfully long to reach a decision. It took him months and months to finally bring himself to do the one thing that was right: to kill the Mad King and thereby end his reign of fire and blood.

It took him years to recover from the aftermaths of that decision, to come to grips with being known as the Kingslayer thereafter, to come back to life after he felt like a walking corpse for so long that he almost lost himself in the echoes of his destroyed reputation and shit sense for honor.

Decisions are paradoxes to him more often than not. Sometimes, they come to him with ease, other times, Jaime can’t see to bring himself to be even close to them.

And maybe, he waited too long for the things that matter while acting too rashly when it came to the small things that amount to nothing.

However, by the end of the day, Jaime simply feels a growing irritation at being forced to wait and wait and wait, even more so when he knows that others are already in action, slipping through the crowd, down the sewers, always at the risk of getting lost, of being found, imprisoned, killed.

“I don’t like this,” Jaime mutters, sitting on the windowsill, one knee nervously bobbing up and down as he tries to ease some of the tension out of his body.

“As you have said about twenty times by now,” Tyrion tells him with a roll of the eyes, though he can very well relate to his brother’s agitation. While the younger man tried to drown them at the bottom of many, many clay cups, he found himself gazing out the window of the septry many times, wishing that he had the means to change something, to move forward, but found none until… he simply did.

Jaime tilts his head to the side as he lets his gaze wander up and down the streets, over the cobblestones, the dirt and dust sneaking across them.

“No, I _really_ don’t like this,” he insists.

“I _know_ ,” Tyrion grunts, rolling his eyes.

“No, you don’t understand. Take a listen,” Jaime urges the younger man, sitting up straighter on the windowsill.

“To what? It’s silent outside and…,” Tyrion means to say, but then stops himself. “ _It’s silent outside_ … the procession already began? That can’t be! I checked it in the old records. They start later than that. I calculated it.”

“And yet, the streets further away from the Sept and the Red Keep are silent,” Jaime argues. “Because they all await to see the Queen and the High Sparrow, early now or not. As I said. I _really_ don’t like this.”

His gaze wanders up to the sky, watching the planets move achingly slow, almost like them, not yet meeting, while so incredibly close.

_Just why do you mock us so, even now?_

“The sun is not yet fully covered by the moon – and Brienne’s still like this,” Jaime says, gesturing at the bird sitting beside him on the windowsill tilting her head at him, as though to show agreement for his irritation.

_So much to becoming an optimist…_

“It appears that either the Queen or the High Sparrow have some urgent business to attend that makes them move faster than estimated,” Tyrion comments with a grimace, licking his lips.

All his good planning may go awry now because Cersei, even when she doesn’t know, tends to create a mess for them, to say the very least.

 _Wretched woman_ , Tyrion thinks to himself with anger boiling underneath his skin. _Why do you have to be on time on all but that occasion? Normally, you are so set on the belief that the world revolves around you anyway!_

“And since we are unable to change the paths of sun and moon… this may all be for nothing from the very beginning,” Jaime exhales, pinching the bridge of the nose.

Too late and too early – the paradoxes in his life which seemingly won’t ever resolve themselves. And if things carry on at this rate, he will take them with him to his grave.

“I wouldn’t fall into despair just yet, brother,” Tyrion argues, licking his lips. “While I agree that we cannot change the constellation of the planets, we can certainly affect the constellation of people.”

“What do you propose?” Jaime asks with a sigh, reminding himself of the hope he saw flashing in a hole, the hope he could feel brush against his fingertips.

There is something worth fighting for, after all, as the young girl said.

“Well, I will admit that I may have been wrong about my sentiment not long ago. Maybe we have to split you two up after all,” Tyrion ponders, going through the options as his feet trace circles.

“Are you suggesting a distraction?” the older man asks.

“Not so much a distraction but an attempt to buy us a bit more time until sun and moon are close again. And let’s face it, if someone can buy us time, it’s you,” Tyrion points out.  

Jaime managed to buy himself enough time and privacy to escape the White Swords Tower by giving the High Sparrow so much of a fright that even the oh so faithful, oh so brave man could not bear to enter the room, far too scared of a man willing to live in sin for a mannish tavern wench accused of witchcraft.

 _If no one else can do it but you, brother_ , Tyrion thinks to himself. _You have proven the Seven wrong so many times already, why not repeat the miracle just one more time?_

“Well, if we wait too long, the procession will be over, people will leave the Sept and we have no way of having the truth be known,” Jaime mutters pensively. “What other choice do we have?”

“As I said, that is what makes it essential that we ensure people stay in the Sept until the solar eclipse is at its fullest,” Tyrion replies.

“That means we can just hope that the girl will find her way through the sewers fast to open the gates for us… for _me_ , that is. Brienne won’t be pleased about that, I am most sure,” Jaime huffs, rolling his shoulders.  

So much to all of their good planning. In the end, he will have to improvise, whether he wants to or not.

Tyrion shakes his head. “I am afraid we cannot wait for her to be pleased about it.”

“No. As always, all careful planning seems to fail in the face of chaos which is our reality for far too long already,” Jaime grunts, his eyes fixed on the street below, where the people are eager to make their way to the Great Sept of Baelor, surely expecting a grand show.

_It’s just that they are likely going to get something they expect the very least._

However, if there is one thing that Jaime learned thanks to what they have been through, then it is that sometimes, you have to be shocked, have to be shaken right to the core, so that you are forced to open your eyes, no matter how much that may hurt.

“Lord Baelish once poignantly said that chaos is a ladder. And while I believe he had something mediocre in mind when he told me that some time before he took leave the Vale after Cersei seized the Throne, I think that for us… it may bear good hope at last,” the younger man answers.

“So we just ought to climb the ladder and hope not to fall off of it,” Jaime huffs.

“Something of that sort, yes,” Tyrion says.

“How difficult can that be?” Jaime snorts.

 _Very_ , both know without having to say it out loud. Impossibly much, in fact.

Jaime wrinkles his nose as he gets up from the windowsill. “Well, then I suppose I should be on my way as soon as possible, see if there is a chance for me to slip up to the Sept once the High Sparrow and our sister are inside… and then… _improvise_.”

“That seems more like you anyway,” Tyrion chuckles softly, though the smile fades from his lips at all too fast, considering the gravitas of the situation, and how all his good planning may be worth nothing much at all, unless Jaime makes it worth it somehow, anyhow.

“It appears to be my destiny,” Jaime says, letting out a shuddered breath as his eyes remain fixed on the people outside flooding towards the Great Sept of Baelor.

The hawk shrieks at him, as though to disagree.

“I don’t like that either, wench, so don’t act like I can help it now,” he grumbles.

The bird shrieks another time, fluttering its wings erratically.

“I won’t apologize for this just now! Simply forget it. You would do the same thing, let us not pretend, so shush now,” Jaime retorts.

If possible, the animal seems only more infuriated, taking flight to the other side of the room, making sure to barely miss Jaime’s face in the process.

“I know that was on purpose,” he grumbles, only to end up letting out a dry laughter, which leaves him at all too fast as he finds his shoulders sink alongside his heavy heart.

It’s far too easy to fall into his patterns of familiarity.

It’s far too easy to dance around the paradoxes rather than trying to solve them.

It’s far too easy to pretend not to know.

Too easy not to answer questions, no matter how pressing, no matter how maddening.

It’s too easy to get lost in the comfort of going through the same motions over and over.

But Jaime knows that he no longer has that luxury. Today changes everything, for better or worse.

Today already changed the world, tilted it upside down, and left him gasping for air while he went over the words so long unspoken until they were uttered by someone uninvolved, inevitably tumbled out into the world.

He may not be able to solve the paradoxes, but nonetheless they require him to answer their call.

“Tyrion?” Jaime says, his voice weaker than he wanted it to be, but Jaime reckons that it’s also over for him to pretend that he is always the strong one, the one with solutions to problems. Because time should have proven that far too often, he is entirely blind to that which is right in front of him.

“Yes?” the younger man asks, blinking at him.

“I have… three favors to ask of you before I go,” Jaime goes on to say, which has the younger man frown at him incredulously. “Three?”

Jaime nods his head slowly. “Yes.”

“Well, whatever is within my powers, I shall do,” Tyrion answers simply, rolling his small shoulders.

He would rather do much more than fulfill some small favors. Tyrion knows that his debt is far from paid. A hole in the ground, a moment hidden in the changes of sun and moon does not wash away that he owes his brother more than words can express.

Though truth be told, he doesn’t like the sound of that, because Jaime makes it sound like a goodbye Tyrion is not at all ready for.

“The first is… that if… _when_ … Brienne transforms, you give her this,” Jaime says, taking out a small slip of rolled up parchment. Tyrion takes it into his palms with a grimace.

“Don’t read it,” Jaime adds.

“I won’t,” the younger brother assures him.

_No, those times are over in a long time._

“Tell her to read it before she makes any kind of move,” Jaime instructs the younger man. “That is the first favor.”

_She ought to know, simple as that._

“I think I will manage that,” Tyrion says. “What else would you mean to ask of me, then?”

“The second favor is that you let Brienne do however she pleases.”

“How is that?” Tyrion asks softly. “Here I thought you’d mean to ask me to sway her.”

“No, no swaying,” Jaime answers, shaking his head. “I simply want her to have this message from me because… because there may not be the time for me to say it to her face now. So… whatever comes after that, it is up to her. Brienne should be free to choose… she _has_ to be.”

One of the things that kept tearing at him over the years was this one if cruel circumstance – that Brienne was deprived of any choice over her life thanks to her connection to him, thanks to Cersei, thanks to the High Sparrow, thanks to a game she never wished to be made part of.

_All she wanted was…_

“And if it is her choice to go into the Sept even though it seems that I am losing already, then you will let her go. If she… by some wink of fate decides to live half the life she has left, live with you at the septry… you will take her with you and you will stay by her side when I can no longer. If I go and she lives on and they take her captive… whatever it takes, you will try to get her out of there. You will lick Ned Stark’s boots if need be, tell him that I would do the same if I was still there for it, I don’t care…”

“That’s out of question,” Tyrion assures him quickly. “She won’t stay in prison another time, not so long I can help it.”

No, by trying to get them all out of the confines of their positions, Tyrion managed to get the two people he cares most about in life in separate cages, and he won’t ever let that happen again so long he can help it.

While he may not be a knight or any kind of hero, Tyrion won’t be stopped this time. The times at the septry, the times of hiding, of only ever lamenting to the Gods instead of telling them what to do to make up for what they let happen to two fine people under their protection, those times are over.

Jaime offers a feeble kind of smile, before continuing with a shaky voice, “And if… and if Brienne asks you for a dagger because she cannot live this life anymore, you will give it to her.”

Tyrion gapes at him, not quite having expected that suggestion. “Jaime.”

He can’t mean for that, can he?

“ _If_ she makes that choice, you don’t get to tell her no, just like I wouldn’t if I were around. I know I demand a lot with this, but… I know Brienne. I know that she wouldn’t want to live such a life a second time,” Jaime explains. “So if there is no chance for her to get out, granted that they throw her back into the black cells… she will find another way. Even if it this most desperate step. And I ask you not to keep her from it.”

While there was that one treasure chest about her which he didn’t know, containing the little secret and the big one, Jaime still tends to think that he knows this woman far better than most. And if there is one thing he is sure of, even with the knowledge Arya forced upon him, then it is that Brienne won’t mean to stay in a cage a second time.

There will be no more binding leather past this day.

There will be no more prison bars.

No more black cells or high towers.

So long Jaime can help it, that is.

“That is… a lot to ask indeed,” Tyrion says, rubbing his palm over his face to ease out some of its tension.

“I know, but I ask anyway, because you are the only one I can trust to try, Tyrion. Whatever Brienne wants… I would want her to have, even if it’s just the choice between one of the lesser evils. Cersei took any choice from her when she had her imprisoned. The High Sparrow did the same when he demanded confessions to crimes she did not commit. And that even though the Gods should have granted her all of it, because Brienne might be the one good person this wretched place has ever seen… And even I found myself wanting Brienne to do or do not things, just to ease my own grief, because I couldn’t bear the thought that she may die in my arms…,” Jaime says, his voice cracking up like raw egg.

He sucks in a deep breath, then another.

Cersei had those leather bindings made for her for just that purpose, to show Brienne that she would never be free, not even as a bird, and even after they made their escape, they have remained prisoners to their condition, trapped inside a beast by night or day, kept away from each other.

_Always together, eternally apart._

And Jaime doesn’t want Brienne to remain bound down by other people, all those who hold her back. He already detested it with Roelle, and he learned to loathe it ever since Cersei and the High Sparrow started to mingle in their affairs.

_But it ends, it ends today._

Because, as strange as it may seem, there lies freedom in choosing your ending. There lies freedom in taking the quill, if only to scribble eight little words, because they are yours, and no one can claim them, wash them away.

“But… it is not my choice to make, not my life to live or give away,” Jaime carries on. “So… whatever is within your powers, Tyrion, I ask you to do to ensure that she will remain free, free to choose, free to go, to simply be free.”

“I… I will try to the best of my abilities,” the young brother tells him. “I swear it.”

Jaime nods his head slowly, swallowing thickly. “Thank you.”

“… And what’s the last favor you mean to ask of me?” the younger man questions, sucking his lower lip into his mouth.

Jaime looks over to the bird sitting on the nightstand, then back at his little brother.

“Since I can’t imagine that Brienne will listen to reason and take flight while she definitely should… this may well end in both our deaths, I know, which means that neither Brienne nor I can guarantee your safety anymore. Cersei sent you the septry once, she won’t do that a second time after today. She will want you dead, Tyrion. So… I want you to stay here and do what you are so good at, observe, make a good guess on how this played out. And if you have the feeling that we two lost, when you see us being paraded through the streets dead… you make a run for it. You run and you don’t look back. Go to Essos if you must. Start over. Chase some dragons. Have a vineyard. Build a school. Do whatever it takes so that you survive. Because you may be the one person I can keep safe like that. So… don’t be a fool like us. Don’t play hero. If there is a chance, go and run for your life.”

Tyrion’s mouth opens and closes, barely bringing out the whisper, “Jaime…”

Jaime swats his knees to look the younger man deep into the eyes, to be sure that he sees that he means every word he speaks, because they matter, because this matters, “This isn’t because I don’t have faith in you. I am telling you this because I want my little brother to live on, because I want to protect, and mayhaps not fail for once, to protect my one true family. You don’t have to be a fighter like us two in order to achieve great good deeds. And that means you don’t have to share in our destiny. Be smarter than us. Be better than us, Tyrion. Live on. Live, just live.”

“But…,” Tyrion matters, but Jaime won’t let him finish, “Even if that means whoring around and drinking till you are silly, live on while you still can. I spent too much time half-dead, then stuck in half a life with only few joys to keep me going. Live, Tyrion, live to the fullest you can. Because life is too short to spend neglecting, to spend in remorse and failed attempts at happiness. Don’t take your fool of a big brother as an example, don’t make the same mistakes I made. Don’t waste that life because you don’t dare to live it. Dare to live. Simply live – and let no one tell you that you are not worth it. Because they are all wrong.”

The young brother lets out a shuddered breath, for one of the few occasions in his life having been rendered utterly speechless. Though Tyrion reckons that he shouldn’t be surprised anymore. If there are two people in this world who succeed in draining the words out of him, then it is those two. However, he can’t deny that this is the most wonderful dread he feels right at this moment, after he already feared he had lost any care his brother felt for him before all hell broke loose.

Yet, here they are, and even in this most grave situation, he can feel the love of the one kin who came to matter these days.

“And anyway… It would be a pity if there was not a single voice to tell a more pleasant story about the likes of us if all goes awry. And we both know you can sell a story better than most,” Jaime laughs drily, though his eyes speak an entirely different language.

“That is… a tough favor to ask, I am afraid even more so than breaking Brienne out of prison if it came to that,” Tyrion jokes with a grimace.

“I still ask for it. I don’t want to lose you, too. I don’t want to lose Brienne either, the Gods will know it true, but… her… I know I can’t convince past a certain point. You? I hope to reason with. You are the smart one after all,” Jaime tells him.

“Though you still think the first favor will sway her?” Tyrion questions, nodding back at the slip of parchment.

“I can be stubborn, too, as you should know,” Jaime says with a sad smile. “So, will you do me the favor?”

“If I have the feeling that all is lost, I will leave the city. I promise,” Tyrion answers, nodding his head slowly.

Jaime swallows. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ , for the trust,” Tyrion mutters, bowing his head.

“I am pretty sure you won’t betray it a second time,” Jaime says.

“No,” the younger man replies faintly.

“Well, then I should be… on my way,” Jaime says, his lips barely moving apart as he speaks.

“You really better should,” Tyrion agrees, but that is when Jaime is on his knees to pull his younger brother to himself to the point that Tyrion can feel the older man’s heart beating the same way he could when he held him to console him after Cersei or their father were awful to the youngest yet again, the greatest kind of reassurance Tyrion ever got to know.

“I hope that if see each other again, it will be as free men,” Jaime croaks, fighting for composure.

“I hope so, too.”

Tyrion holds on a little tighter, feeling tears sting in his eyes, to remember it, to cherish it, because he learned that moments such as these are far too rare to pick apart with clever speeches. They are better spent in silence, so they can resonate right into the center of the heart.

When Jaime pulls away, he quickly wipes the back of his sleeve over his eyes, offering a crooked kind of grin before he stands back up.

“Remember your vows,” he says. “Because I will keep reminding you of them if you don’t.”

“I will,” Tyrion assures him.

Jaime fixes his belt with the new sword another time, though his gaze already wandered over to the bird silently sitting on the nightstand, observant as ever, always having an eye on him.

_Always having my back._

“You better hurry up, wench,” Jaime says with a smile he wants to mean, but can’t bring himself to. “I hope to see you on either this side or the other.”

He already means to turn away and leave, but then he can hear the familiar brush of wings. Jaime whirls to his right to find the bird landing on his arm with the same kind of grace he knows from Brienne whenever she wields a blade, the unknown kind, the hidden kind, the one that he prides himself having gotten to know before most others.

Jaime blows out air through his nostrils as the bird leans its head against his upper arm. Instinctively, he runs the back of his finger of his free hand over the animal’s feathers.

“I will see you again, Brienne,” Jaime whispers, the hawk seemingly understanding that it is time to go, so she flies back to her previous spot on the windowsill, waiting.

A faint smile fades across Jaime’s lips as he exits, holding back a laughter on the verge of being a sob as he finds one blueish feather still sticking to his sleeve.

It is a strange kind of gift, but a gift nonetheless.

Though he hopes it’s no last gift, no last goodbye.

Because he’d rather have Brienne take up the feather to write her story with it instead of leaving them on him to take along in the vain hope of changing the constellation of the planets in their favor.

* * *

 

Down in the sewers, Arya is still thankful for the little lamp that Tyrion gave to her the night before, as the oil lamp won’t be doused even when she dives in the water. Gods know how he managed to seal it like that, but for now, the young girl could not care less. In fact, it made her first tender steps in reverse a lot easier.

For a moment, her thoughts go back to Meryn Trant, the opportunity she had to get back at him for what he took from her, but then her gaze wanders to the stone walls all around her, and the shadows she sees dancing over them are birds and wolves and dwarves and swords, and no single trace of a man of the Kingsguard most undeserving of the White.

She stops in her tracks, looks around, in the vain hope to rediscover her own echo, the one she left when she crawled her way out of the black cells, but the more she loos, the more irritated the young girl grows.

Arya can’t recall whether she walked those paths before. All passages look the same in the dim light of her lantern.

 _Where do I go? Where am I anyway?_ she thinks, trying to spot something familiar. _Did I go wrong somewhere?_

Back when she proposed this to Jaime, Arya felt a lot surer about her own abilities of retracing her steps. She found them without the wonderful light, she found her way out of the black cells all by herself, without a lamp, without Needle, when she was still just Arry, known as the thief Mouse. Yet, here she stands now in some hallway the young girl can’t remember, and Arya can’t help but wonder whether she overestimated her own capabilities all along.

 _What would Syrio do?_ she asks herself, a question she called to mind whenever she found herself in peril. Syrio was her teacher, he was her reason to run away from the Red Keep, to escape Winterfell, her own kin.

 _What would Syrio do?_ was her guiding beacon, her little lantern in the darkness. Because he would have known, she was always sure of it.

The young girl steps closer to the trail of water running beside her and gazes at her own reflection, praying to the Old Gods that they bring Syrio’s face up to the surface, if only to remind her of her teachings, show her the way, if only the next step.

_Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Quick as a snake. Strong as a bear. Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow…_

However, those thought don’t lead her further, Arya has to realize as her confusion prevails and her former dancing master won’t swim up thanks to some miraculous wink of fate.

 _There is no one_ , Arya thinks to herself, feeling cold creep up her claves, only to settle in her belly, bringing her to shudder.

_Syrio, what would you do? What am I supposed to do? Please, tell me. Help me! I have to find my way to the Sept. I have to help Jaime and Brienne. Can’t you come back to me for only just one dance to guide me the way?_

However, all remains silent, only the sound of a mouse sniffing the moldy air cuts through it with a fine needle. Her teacher, her mentor, though, won’t come to light.

 _So what would he do if he was here?_ Arya thinks, her head already pounding from the fear and nervousness washing through her mind like a gigantic wave.

Yet, no matter her pondering, no matter her wish to find an answer, it won’t come to her, won’t jump up from the shadows or the depths of the murky water in which all reflection is swallowed up and pulled to the grounds below.

Syrio never told her a story of crawling his way through a sewer system to escape prison. He never taught Arya any of those things. Syrio taught her how to water dance, he taught her how to wield her blade like the Braavosi do it. He taught her how to be only just a girl, wanting to make her no one. He taught her how to keep her balance while standing on the doorsteps, how to chase and capture cats, to move like them, to be like them. He taught her how to survive in the fashion that he knew.

 _But where does being no one get me now?_ the girl wonders, looking for a clue, something to hold on to from her teachings thanks to a man who could steal through the streets without anyone’s knowledge for many years, until that one time when he failed.

Arya chews on her lower lip.

_Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Quick as a snake. Strong as a bear. Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow…_

But deer and snakes and bears are not to be found in those crypts, so how would they find their way? And she could likely curse at the top of her lungs now and no one would hear, so why be as quite as a shadow?

She has to get to the Sept, she has to open the gates. She has to let Jaime inside, so he can break the curse. She has to get up there, she has to find a way, _now, now, now!_

 _“You are taking one step before the other,”_ she can hear a familiar voice inside her head, but one that is not Syrio’s, but that of the woman who showed her a knight’s kindness and a woman’s strength.

One step after the other, Arya says to herself, sucking in a deep breath.

 _“That is because a master never teaches his pupils all of his tricks,”_ Arya can hear another familiar voice flit across the wet stone. Syrio wasn’t around to teach her all, and even if he was still alive, only the Old Gods will know whether he would have taught her what it takes now to find her way to the Great Sept of Baelor.

 _“You should always remember your name, girl,”_ the last of the three echoes says, quickly running away before she can even turn her head.

What would Syrio do? Arya cannot tell.

 _Syrio is not here_ , she reminds herself. _Brienne is, Jaime is, Tyrion is, however._

However, she is here, and she has been here before, not Syrio. The young brunette found her way through the sewers, without a light, without anyone’s help, all on her own, thanks to a loose stone in her cellar from the woman she was yet to meet.

 _I am here_ , Arya says to herself. _So what would I do? What did I do last time?_

That is when her eyes fall back on the small lantern Tyrion gave to her. Arya bends down on the ground and opens it to douse the flame within.

“I thank you for this, Tyrion, but it seems that I have to find my way like I did last time, and I didn’t come to have this wonderful thing on me by the time,” she whispers with a smile. As her fingers find the wick, her eyes search for Syrio’s reflection in the water another time, but she finds only her own image, only just herself, as though he was granting her safe passage, gave Arya free to be herself instead of no one.

When the lights go out, she is not afraid. Slowly but with more confidence than before, the young girl taps her fingers against the wet stones of the wall, traces the patterns.

I was here before, she thinks to herself as her steps become quicker, now that Arya retraces her own steps instead of those of her former master.

_Be as swift as Jaime. Be as cunning as Tyrion. As strong as Brienne. Be Arya Stark of Winterfell. As swift as Jaime. As cunning as Tyrion. As strong as Brienne. Arya Stark of Winterfell. Jaime. Tyrion. Brienne. Arya…_

And so, her quest continues in the darkness, round corners she cannot see but feel, Needle wrapped around her waist and her friends’ words the only companions by her side.

She only stops when there is suddenly light where there shouldn’t be any.

Arya pries her eyes open slowly, mesmerized, almost, as her vision adjusts to the dim light flickering along the outlines of the stones. She reaches out her hand to brush it over the wooden planks nailed across another entrance. While Arya can’t make out much in the darkness, it seems to her that some were removed, thereby revealing the lighter wood underneath.

Her gaze wanders back down to the candle on the ground and the fine sting leading into the room or passageway leading inside that which the planks try to keep away from.

 _Strange_ , Arya thinks to herself. _That was not here last time._

So what is it here for now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took the liberty to change Jaime's plans for Brienne from the original movie, because I don't think Jaime would actively ask Tyrion to do what Navarre asks Imperius to do in case things don't go as planned. I really wanted to stress the point that Jaime wants Brienne to have a chance of a choice after she was denied exactly that for so very long.


	11. Light, Trials, and Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All are heading out to their missions while sun and moon are yet to move into the right constellation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thanks for sticking around, even though my updating schedule proves to be horrible yet again, but the writer's block was great. Very much so.
> 
> I decided to split the finale into two parts, and then there will be an epilog, but there is an end in sight, can you believe it??? 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you are going to like how this goes.
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

Light.

Arya never thought she would be that relieved to finally see something that simple, something that omnipresent, something she only ever missed when in the black cells, but as the young girl has waded through the darkness in search for an exit leading to the Great Sept of Baelor for what felt like a small eternity, Arya cannot help but let out a sigh as she glances up the tunnel from which the white light rains down on her.

_And there are voices, too! Voices! I am close! It’s almost done._

She picks up speed as the voices grow more and more distinct until she can make out prayers and songs flitting across the wet stones, all the way to her.

 _Gentle Mother, font of mercy,_  
save our sons from war, we pray,  
stay the swords and stay the arrows,  
let them know a better day.  
Gentle Mother, strength of women,  
help our daughters through this fray,  
soothe the wrath and tame the fury,  
teach us all a kinder way.

While Arya does not pray to the Seven for guidance as her Gods live in the trees up in the North, the brunette can’t help but thank the Mother to finally hear songs sung in her worship.

The young girl looks up the tunnel leading to the inside of the sept, but sadly, there is no ladder to use to climb it. Arya sucks her lower lip into her mouth, contemplating, but then reminds herself of her small stature that well fits the tunnel.

_Be as swift as Jaime. Be as cunning as Tyrion. As strong as Brienne. Be Arya Stark of Winterfell…_

Thus, Arya jumps up a few times before she can finally reach into the tunnel, and then stretches herself out the best she can to use her limbs to push herself up the wet stone walls, hoping, praying, begging that she will not slip back down, or else this may well be her end.

The higher you climb, the deeper you can fall.

And that is nothing Arya can afford. She cannot lose grip the same way she cannot lose today. They have to succeed. Jaime and Brienne have to succeed, have to beat the High Sparrow and the Queen to finally get the justice they deserve.

Inch for inch, Arya keeps pushing herself up the tunnel, her legs already shaking from the constant strain, but giving up is no option, going down is no option.

_Up, up, up, up!_

At last, she is close to the iron bars marking the end of the tunnel. Arya spreads her legs so that she gets her hands free to grab on to the metal and hopes to give it one mighty push to sneak into the Great Sept of Baelor before her legs give up on her and. However, that is when the light fades away and a man comes to stand on the sewer.

_No. No. No!_

Arya lets out a frustrated grunt. She can’t hold on for much longer. Either she gets up or she is bound to fall back into the abyss of darkness, but then her eyes fall on the yet again familiar weight of her sword dangling around her waist.

_Yes. Yes. Yes!_

The young girl is quick to take out Needle to poke it through the empty space of the bars, right in the soles of the man. While she would rather not hurt him, the brunette has to get up, or else she will fall to her death, and dying is no option. She must live so Jaime and Brienne can, after all.

At first the man just stomps his feet as she was too hesitant, so Arya has to poke him harder, much harder this time, and at last, the man steps aside, grumbling to himself as he hobbles away. Arya waits for a moment longer before slowly pushing the metal aside as silently as she can, though thankfully, all attention is on the High Sparrow and the Queen as they walk inside the sept, hand in hand.

_A strange kind of show as neither one is willing to be Hand to the other._

Arya pulls herself out of the sewer up on the ground before quickly closing the drain and taking a few steps back, fading into the shadows cast by the huge statues representing the Seven.

Sometimes, it does pay off to be small in size and unrecognized as who she truly is, if only to fade into the crowd, if only to get a chance to reveal herself once it is time.

Her eyes narrow as they fix on the Queen and the High Sparrow, walking as though nothing happened, as though all is as it is meant to be, even though they are only ever paraded down the streets and held up on their mighty chairs because they built the Two Pillars on lies, nothing but lies and cruelty.

 _But they will pay at last_ , Arya reminds herself. _For all the bad they have done, for all the crimes and sins they have committed, they will have to pay back twice._

Light will win over the darkness, be it in the confinement of a tunnel or in the shine of the Great Sept of Baelor, Arya wants to be certain of that, wants to hold on to that thought to make her heart beat a little slower.

 _… The Mother gives the gift of life,_  
and watches over every wife.  
Her gentle smile ends all strife,  
and she loves her little children…

Arya observes the Two Pillars as they reach the top of the stairs, bathing in the light filtering through the colored glass window shaped like the seven-pointed star of their faith. The High Sparrow and the Queen turn to the crowd that gathered inside the sept, from commoners over royal lords and ladies, knights, Sparrows, septas, and small children, all alike, having gathered to celebrate a true Mother of the nation, though none seems aware that the Queen couldn’t be further away from a mother of the Nation than Arya is from being the Queen of Astapor.

If not for her mission, Arya would find herself almost intrigued by the procession, the sacrifices made to the Seven, though it only ever reminds her of the danger that comes with the Faith the way the High Sparrow preaches it. It pulls you in, he pulls you in, to raise your voice and sing along. So that, at some point, you no longer question what he says, take his dignity that comes not from wealth, not from dashing looks or high birth, but just from assuming a voice for the people.

Even though the people he does not mean to include, it seems, are the sinners. Or rather, he will only welcome them back once they completely submit themselves to his teachings, as though the High Sparrow’s way was the only path towards salvation, something Arya dares to doubt as she is sure there is a special place in those Seven Hells the people of the Faith keep speaking of, reserved only just for him and maybe the Queen to join him so they can fight over that in the afterlife, too.

_And wouldn’t that be sweet?_

Arya only halfway listens to the man’s words, not wanting to get drawn into a witchcraft without the magic of the kind that was put on Jaime and Brienne to make them beasts. Instead, she lets her gaze wander around and looks for chances to slip further and further towards the back of the sept, so that she can hear what is going on outside. She only has one chance to open the gate at just the right moment to let Jaime inside.

“… My friends, my brothers and sisters. We have gathered here today in one spirit, to celebrate the Mother for her gentleness, for her kindness, for that she watches over all of us, as any mother would and should. For it is the mothers who continue our nation, who nurture it, who bear it! And so we are to thank them the same way we ought to show gratitude to the Mother,” the High Sparrow announces from the top of his voice as he settles down on his chair. “Praise be on the Mother!”

“Praise be!”

“Praise be!”

“Praise be!”

Queen Cersei leans over to him as the people start to recite yet another prayer for the Mother, tapping her index finger on the wooden armrest, which may not be the Iron Throne, but will do for what she set out to do today.

 _My throne awaits me once I get back_ , the Queen thinks to herself with a smile, already aching for the feeling of the molten swords in her back, the power it emits, the power it makes her feel inside herself.

“A beautiful opening speech, my friend,” she tells him, patting the High Septon’s forearm lightly. “Though I hope you did not forget about my little announcement, yes?”

“Absolutely not. I am just following through with the procedures, Your Grace. There will be plenty of time for you to make your statement to the city after we have gotten through this prayer for the Mother. And of that I am sure, all are going to hear it,” the High Sparrow assures her. _It is just that they will then hear something they will never forget again, and it will not be whatever announcement the Queen of false idols may have in mind_ , he adds to himself and himself alone, for now anyway.

“Most kind of you,” she whispers with a smile. “It’s such a matter of heart to me that the people know of this latest development.”

The prayer subsides and the people turn their attention back to the front, to the Two Pillars who uphold a nation by holding it down in turn.

“The Queen will now make an announcement,” the High Sparrow calls out, gesturing at her.

After all, for the lamb’s flesh to stay tender, it must not know of the blade until the moment it sinks into the flesh, or else all meat goes bad.

Cersei stands up slowly, takes her time as she steps to the front of the stairs, looking down on all those unfamiliar faces, which are no more than a gray mass to her, have always been, and will forever be.

“My good people. I am glad that all of you have gathered here today to celebrate the Mother. And while it was not granted to me to bear children as the Mother would have wanted it, I feel as a mother this nation, and as such, it is my greatest pleasure that the Faith and the Crown are so deeply entwined so that we can celebrate in one spirit,” she begins, her voice carrying to the furthest corner and crevice of the Sept. “However, not just godly matters concern a Queen, as you will know. It is both her duty and privilege to protect the realm, and that includes making sure that only the best bear the White in her honor, in that of the realm, to protect it, to shield it.”

The people murmur silently, looking on in both confusion and surprise as that was certainly something they did not expect to hear on a day that should be dedicated to the godly affairs instead of those of the Queensguard. After all, it is not within their power to protest. Nothing is in their power if anyone were to ask the Queen, and most people know of that circumstance painfully well as they were beaten down, countless times, to assure them of just that fact.

“It is a great honor for me to introduce you to our new Lord Commander today,” Cersei continues. “Your former Lord Commander, Ser Meryn Trant, whom I still hold in the _highest_ of spirits for his services to the Crown, has expressed his personal wish to be removed from this position. An only recently discovered _condition_ makes him unfit of filling into such a leading role. He will, of course, remain an integral member of the Queensguard, for his vow is for life, but that means someone has to continue Ser Meryn’s legacy. Which is why it is both my honor and pleasure to show to you today your new Lord Commander who will protect not just your Queen, but the entire realm. Please step forward, Ser Gregor.”

The people gasp as a true _giant_ approaches from behind the statue representing the Stranger, the earth slightly shaking under every of his heavy footsteps. Arya gasps as she sees the large man who is perhaps thrice as tall as she is, looking less like a human and more like something raised from the dead. After she learned about what Cersei did to Brienne and Jaime, there was no doubt in her mind about the woman’s wickedness, but that man seems embody her hunger for power, which exceeds the powers of a single normal man and can only be contained by something as monstrous as this man. Arya swallows. _This means no good._

“Ser Gregor has proven himself to me as a most loyal servant and true protector of the Crown. He shall enforce the Queen’s justice from this day forth,” Cersei announces in a loud voice, raising her arms slightly into the air. The people still look around in confusion, which soon starts to ebb into waves of fear as they see the large man make a round, reminding them that this man would tear them down in a heartbeat if they were to attack him in any capacity.

While most were already terrified of the likes of Ser Meryn Trant and the Faith Militant roaming the streets, it is quite something else to be confronted with a man who looks like he could crush you between your fingers if you even so much as disobeyed to the Queen or spoke ill of her.

 _At this rate, Jaime and Brienne will hardly stand a chance against this… monster_ , Arya thinks, swallowing thickly, only to shake her head. _No, they will win. They can do this. Today is the day that justice will ring. It has to be._

“I hope that you will see the same amount of value in the Lord Commander that I do,” Cersei continues. “His services have proven most vital to the integrity of the Crown, and I daresay that they will also prove to be important in keeping this nation together in one spirit.”

Under one pillar, one Queen.

_Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me._

Cersei settles back down, and while she keeps smiling at the crowd as they uncertainly start to sing the next song for the Mother, there is nothing comforting or warm hidden in the curve of her lips now.

She can finally drop the act.

“What is that about, Your Grace?” the High Septon questions as he leans over to her, trying his best to keep his voice lowered, so not to give himself away, so not to have her know that he felt an unfamiliar sensation from his body that he thought died with the beast of man.

Fear.

“Shall we drop the act, my good old friend? I think we have played it for far too long. It is making me dizzy,” Cersei huffs, turning her head in his direction. “Do you sincerely think that anything goes on in _my_ city without me noticing it? Without me hearing of it? Did you honestly believe that you could form a revolution without me seeing your men whisper to the commonfolk? I have my eyes and ears everywhere.”

She had Qyburn’s little birds flit through the soup kitchens and orphanages the High Sparrow was so eager on visiting, to chase the love of the people like some witless fool, still sold on the belief that he can’t just have them fear his message but have to love the man presenting it. And the little birds told Qyburn long before this day that the High Sparrow was having plans of his own, to see just one pillar stand, but not the one Cersei has in mind.  

“If that were true, then why would you come here?” the High Sparrow asks cautiously.

Cersei licks her lips. “Do you know what true power means?”

“Power, you once told me,” he answers.

“Precisely, and the symptom of that is that if you have true power… you can willfully walk into a trap because you know thatyou will get out of it. While I don’t know just what you mean to accuse me of, using this _holy_ place as your stage for your little theater play, I am sure that you would want to shed a different light on me than the one I would mean to cast upon the Crown,” Cersei tells him.

The High Sparrow stares, his eyes widening, his heart beating faster and faster. While he had no illusion about it that the Queen had her eyes and ears everywhere, the septon did not take her to be that confident to come to the Sept to where she must suppose he would mean to tear her down.

_Why would a lioness walk into a trap like that if she knew how to get around it?_

“So whatever it may be… I am telling you right now, as an act of benevolence… stop it, and you will not be further harmed,” Cersei says coolly.

Because _that_ is true power.

“What is that supposed to mean? Do you wish to have your precious new soldier slay me before everyone’s eyes? Do you sincerely believe that _this_ will bring you the hearts of the people?” the High Septon huffs, because he knows that the people love him, even though they fear the sin. They look up to him to help them absolve themselves of their sinful flesh. And with him gone, the people will be an uproar. After all, that is the kind of kingdom he built for himself, and that even though the Queen was so eager to watch it happen. He built a kingdom within a wave that can crush over a city, but does not need him as a person to set it forth or let it carry on.

He is the messenger, not the message, and that is a lesson the High Sparrow understood long before the Queen could so much as grasp the strength that comes from gathering people around you without making them follow you but a movement.

“Oh, I don’t need the hearts of the people. I don’t need their love. I don’t need their confidence in me or my goodness. I just need them to kneel before me. I need their loyalty. Their fear. But no, having Ser Gregor tear you apart limb by limb… may be _enticing_ to some, but not to me,” Cersei tells him, her features unmoving.

_At least for now._

“Then what is?” the older man wants to know.

“Turning the tide,” the Queen answers calmly, her eyes not leaving the crowd just once as she speaks. “So now, here is what is going to happen, my dear friend: You may now make your little accusations against me, whatever nature they may be. And who knows, maybe there will be an uproar after that. Maybe there won’t be. Because people are sheep, not lions, I may tell you. But what will _most certainly_ happen is that I will leave this Sept as Queen. And that will leave you with two choices.”

“Which would be?” the High Sparrow questions.

“One, you join me. We will handle the matters of you giving your power over to the Crown to make the One Pillar rise at last, in a more private setting. You will be rewarded for your cooperation, even. You will remain High Septon. You will get to preach to the people, feed those whose love you seek beside the terror you spread along the way. You get to keep your soup kitchens and orphanages. You will get away with your life.”

The High Sparrow licks his lips. “And what is the other option?”

“Two, you don’t join me. We won’t exit the Sept together from whence we came. The doors will shut themselves behind me and by the time your little Sparrows can make so much as an attempt to break you out, the city will finally see what Aerys Targaryen did not succeed in thanks to my twin brother’s actions.”

“What do you mean by that?” the High Sparrow questions.

“Did you know that there are vaults and crypts beneath the Sept? The entire city, even? And far more importantly, did you know that the Mad King had stashes of wildfire spread across the entire underground of the capitol? I suppose not. My brother made certain that those _wonderful_ vials and barrels were forgotten about over time,” Cersei whispers with a smile she does mean. “What a waste.”

Once she learned about it, Cersei was ever the surer of her brother’s weakness, not just for falling for some shambling beast rather than staying by the side of his Queen and other half, but for giving away such power. He had it right within his hands. Jaime could have seized the throne – or at the least hand it over to her in due time. Then Cersei never would have had to bother marrying that oaf of a man who only ever proved to be a whoring bastard in love with the ghost of the woman he meant to wed before he was promised to Lord Tywin’s daughter.

_But Jaime was seemingly much more of disappointment than I ever took him to be._

Though he couldn’t hide it away forever, despite the fact that he had made certain that no one would stumble upon them just by accident, it seems. It took them a lot of searching through the vaults and crypts to find the hidden rooms Jaime himself seemingly saw to that they were locked behind wood and stone.

 _Maybe I should be thankful to him now_ , Cersei thinks to herself, almost amused at the thought. _Those hidden stashes came in very handy for me now, after all._

“You can’t mean for that,” the High Sparrow mutters.

_Wildfire?_

That is truly the one thing the High Sparrow did not even think about potentially getting in the way of the wave they want to see form and crash over the entire city to cleanse it of its sins and even more sinful royals.

He never thought a lioness would walk into a trap, sit down on a seat on fire. He saw something else in his visions. He saw her being drowned by the wave he meant to set into motion, but there was no fire, no wildfire.

_Or is she just bluffing?_

“Oh, I do. And you can trust me on that, my dear friend. Trust my rage. This is just a matter of time. I will be far away before any of you can hold me back to hold me accountable for what you mean to accuse me of. For what do I have Ser Gregor to pave the way for me, hm? You see, I am being benevolent to you, my friend, by showing you what is going to happen if you do not cooperate. You should take it to be a fortune, as this is something the Mad King certainly would _not_ have done.”

“But your men…,” the High Sparrow mutters, looking at all the people gathered in the Sept, thinks back to the White Cloaks they passed by on their way inside, standing vigil outside on the steps leading up to the Great Sept of Baelor.

“They only know one order, which is to lock you all inside once I am out,” Cersei tells him calmly. “And that is all there is for them to know.”

“They don’t know that you…,” the man of the faith whispers, suddenly out of breath.

“Of course they don’t. That would be far too inconvenient, don’t you think? Fear makes people weak. Confidence is power. Power is power. And it is better for them to stay unaware so that they don’t fall victim to their own fright, so they can carry out their duty,” Cersei tells him. “And they swore their lives to me anyway. They will die as heroes, whereas you and your Sparrows… will just be ashes, soon to be forgotten. Just like whatever evidence you may think you have against me will burn for no one to ever find again. You, everything you stand for, it will go up into air, spread across the Seven Kingdoms to fade into nothingness. And you should know that when you fall, your entire little revolution is meant to turn to dust alongside you. While I am sure you pride yourself being _just one amongst many_ , you are the head of this treacherous snake you brought to rise against me. Cut off the snake’s head, what remains of it, hm? A headless snake, thrashing one more time before it inevitably finds its end.”

“You must be bluffing.”

“I am not. But if it is you any comfort, be my guest to believe it until you see nothing but green around you.”

Cersei takes a pause to look back at the people singing the song, praying to the Mother, praying for mercy they should ask from her and not from an entity they don’t even know the face of.

“They may march against me, for a time, but I have all possibilities and resources in the world to break down any revolution that may try to rise above the ground ever since I dared to dig into the past, into the vaults, those hidden parts of the city my brother tried to make us all forget about. Because he was fool enough not to see the power residing in this wonderful green,” the Queen continues. “Which leaves the question whether you are willing to make so many people the sacrifice for your little idea or… prove to be smarter, prove to be the benevolent leader you enacted so beautifully when you fed the poor in your little soup kitchens and talked about the Seven Heavens to ease their grief. For that you could protect those you are so eager to put at the center of every word you speak, the choice should be rather easy, don’t you think?”

“The people will not love you for killing their kind in that fashion,” the High Sparrow warns her. “They will not consider you their Queen past that day. They will not trust you, they will not believe you.”

“And that is where you, like many, just keep making this foolish mistake over and over again: I don’t need the people to love me. There lies no power in love, just weakness. Power is power. And I have it. I have Ser Gregor. I have the wildfire. I am above your laws. I welcome the people to fear me. Fear is good, fear means surrender, it means having power over the weaker. It means standing on top of the Pillar those poor souls will keep carrying, now with distrust in their eyes or not. I have no trouble being a Queen of Terror, a Queen of the Ashes, so long I am Queen. So… what do you say, my friend? What is it going to be? One or two? I can have it either way, whereas you… can have only just one.”

Because there is just one Pillar.

One Queen.

_And today will prove that once and for all._

The High Sparrow lets his gaze wander about the crowd another time, over the praying commoners over to the Septas and Septons he gave instructions to in the purity of the sept lying underneath this place filled with false pride, a false sense of security, as he just learned, though he should have known better.

Gold does not protect.

False idols do not bring absolution.

And a woman so keen on having one and being the other will not stop short, even before creating a beast of a man without wolf’s claws or becoming a beast of a woman painting an entire city in the green flame that should have been doused under Aerys Targaryen.

“… Will you let me make the announcement?” the High Sparrow then asks, bowing his head. Cersei gestures at him with a small smile. “Be my guest.”

The High Sparrow nods before getting up slowly. He steps to the front, spreading his arms wide, instantly catching the people’s attention, the way he always does when he speaks to a crowd.

“My good people, I must make a confession to you today, one that has brought great grievance to my soul as I kept it hidden within me, let it fester, let it eat away at my weak, weak flesh. But today, I shall cleanse myself of it all, in the eyes of the Mother, the eyes of the Seven, and you, the good people of King’s Landing,” the High Sparrow begins. In his back, Cersei cocks an eyebrow at him, waiting for the man to make the announcement she wants him to make so that her power will finally be absolute.

_After all, a Queen does not like to be kept waiting._

“Something was brought to my attention by a young man who confessed his sins to me some time ago. He came to me broken and confused, but with a heart now as light as that of a bird,” the High Sparrow carries on, watching the masses follow every movement of his lips as though they alone bore the power to overthrow an empire. “And what he had to say… it was of a kind affecting all our destinies, bound them together, and yet… I did not share, waited and waited. However, the waiting is over today. As the Queen reminded me just now by taking such _action_ … we must move, move forward in one direction, and not look back at the past until it is the time to meditate those grievances and learn from them in the future. I made some many mistakes throughout my life. I am as much of a sinner as everyone is, because it seems to be what unites us all.”

Cersei folds her hands in her lap, her eyes travelling over to Ser Gregor briefly, but then focus back on the man she wants to just put an end to it. After all, she wouldn’t want to chance being late to take her leave and give the signal to Qyburn to set forth the avalanche of green she is willing to let loose to cement her power into the ruins of the Faith, if the High Sparrow does not give in.

Because in contrast to her, he does not have the luxury of willfully walking into a trap, because he has no other way out than the one they came in at the same time. There is just her path, and he has to follow it, or else he will fall.

“However, today is the day that we celebrate the Mother’s virtue. We gathered here to honor her gentleness, her goodness, and her purity, if only to remind ourselves that we are no longer that, have fallen for sin many, many times. Today, we celebrate the Mother for birthing our nation, for nurturing it, for breathing life into it, and so… it seems only appropriate to use this rare opportunity to confess, to speak truth, no matter the consequences, no matter the sacrifice,” the High Sparrow says, but then turns around to face the Queen. “I hereby charge Cersei Lannister with treason against the Crown and the Faith, with regicide, incest, and having falsely claimed the Iron Throne as hers, for I have a witness of the Faith who can attest to her guilt. Lancel Lannister, step forward.”

From the furthest corner away from the Queen, a dark-robed Sparrow removes the hood from his face to reveal the shorn head of the Queen’s cousin whom she believed did not even have the spine to stand after she cast him out.

Cersei stares at him, then back at the Sparrow.

 _He must be mad_ , she thinks to herself, her eyes and mind racing. Because the Queen was sure that the High Sparrow would not be fool enough to follow through with that after she made her show of power. He is sheep after all.

“Today, Cersei Lannister shall be charged for her crimes – and the Seven will decide over her fate. Because no one can escape the Gods’ justice,” the High Sparrow shouts at the top of his voice, sending the entire audience into an uproar. The man of the Faith turns back around to the Queen another time, his features grim, determined, free of fear. “No one can, not even a self-proclaimed Queen.”

Cersei bares her teeth at the man, her long fingers clutching at the wood of the chair she sits in.

“Sparrows, guard the doors! No one is allowed to leave!” the High Sparrow calls out, waving his arm in direction of one Sparrow who instantly runs up the staircase leading to the tower. “Protect this gate with your life if you must! Justice will ring from the Great Sept of Baelor today. And the Mother may have mercy on our souls!”

They are just a few people, in the end, the High Sparrow knows it. Even he is disposable, that was how he set it up, how he put the message before the messenger. They are a small fraction of the wave meant to turn the tide in the city, in the realm entirely. Their message will carry further than this Sept, and that is where the Queen made her miscalculation visible just now. She thinks that he believes himself irreplaceable, but the High Sparrow knows he is not.

It is the message that counts, not the messenger.

And their message will ring further than any wildfire will ever reach, from the rooftops of the small houses of King’s Landing, all the way to the high walls of Winterfell, Highgarden, the Citadel, all the way to the Iron Islands and even Casterly Rock itself.

The cry of the bells of the Great Sept of Baelor starting to echo throughout the sept makes him smile in relief. The message was sent, the message will catch on, will grow into a wave reaching beyond the false idols of this place, beyond the gold, and it will even douse the flames, granted that they are real and not just an empty threat the Queen means to use to make him give in.

And if they die, then so they will. And if the Queen manages to get past them, so she will, but before that can happen, the High Sparrow will do as much as he can to annihilate the very idol that she came to represent and bring power to, the Iron Throne, the Crown, so that both shall crumble under the weight of a wave that even the Queen cannot stop with her wildfire or inhuman humans she let take the White.

“Well, shit,” Arya mutters to herself, watching in horror as the Sparrows move up to guard the gate she wanted to get close to in order to push it open for when Jaime and Brienne finally arrive to demand their justice.

_How do I let Jaime inside now?_

_How do I do this?_

_What am I supposed to do?_

_And whose mercy do I have to bid to turn it away from the Two Pillars and over to a wolf and a hawk?_

* * *

 

Jaime considers it the slightest bit of a fortune that most people have gathered in certain spots around the city rather than clogging up all streets leading to the Great Sept of Baelor, or else he would have much more trouble racing ahead to make it there in time. Not that this has given him any ideas about what to do once he is inside, without Brienne, with no more than a marvelous sword and his own word standing against that of a Queen and a High Septon.

 _If Brienne were here, it would be easier_ , Jaime thinks to himself regretfully. _She is no Kingslayer, she speaks with honesty, and I still tend to think Cersei did not spread seed to speak ill of her to make people fall from faith about the Maid of Tarth._

Yet, here he is, back in the streets marking both his glory and his shame, without the woman by his side who has been right there since the day she found Jaime again in the midst of a forest far away from here, to save him the way Brienne has always done it without ever realizing it being so. However, Jaime knows that it makes no difference now. He has a mission to fulfill, all that he could say is said, and all that he could not say is hidden away in a message spelling it out in as few words as possible.

Once he can see the Sept growing bigger and bigger before him, Jaime decides to take Honor down an alleyway Brienne once showed him to get quicker from Flea Bottom the main market close by the sept, a route not many take as it goes right past some many tanners’ shops, thus making it near unbearable to inhale through the nose. Back during those times, they laughed as they raced down the narrow alleyway, sometimes on horseback, sometimes by foot, trying to determine who was fastest to get to the market, only to endure the stench for as long as they could to walk very slowly back. Because they wanted to take the time before Brienne would bid him farewell to disappear into her little chamber down Flea Bottom or to labor at the inn another night. It was as though they knew that there was so little time they had to use as much as they could, that it would grow sparse one day. Those were the days Jaime lived to his fullest, hidden away in dark alleyways, doing no great deeds, serving no greater purpose other than life itself, his own and that of the woman who never left him, never abandoned him, even when she probably should have done that long, long time ago.

_But we have been fools for all our life, it seems._

The thoughts die out inside Jaime’s head when he hears the people shouting and chattering as they have gathered around the Great Sept of Baelor. Because it is them who will likely have the greatest force in the decisions about to be made. Whether they believe in the Queen, the High Sparrow, or the Kingslayer and a woman from the Sapphire Isle known as Brienne the Beauty, is something only the Seven will know.

_If they bother to care, that is._

“Easy now, Honor,” Jaime mutters, tapping the horse’s neck a few times as the steed snorts with growing agitation at the crowd ahead of them. “Let’s just hope the girl made it to the gate in time so that we don’t have to run it down all by ourselves, hm?”

Because he would certainly not fancy that.

Jaime gives the horse the spurs another time before they circle the crowd to get to the left side of the staircase leading up to where they ought to go. He tightens his grip on the sword when he catches sight of Meryn Trant barking out orders to the Queensguard and City Watch all the same. Not that it surprises Jaime, but he can still feel his blood boiling at the sight of the man who readily took his position and has since infested the wound that was ripped into the Queensguard over the years, to the point that a brother had to die at this bastard’s hands for recognizing the man who once was their Lord Commander. A brief glance up into the sky reveals to Jaime that the sun is closer but still too far from the moon for Brienne to round the corner, which is why he holds on tight to the reins before signaling Honor to break into a gallop up the white stairs.

After all, he is supposed to serve as a distraction, and Jaime doesn’t seem to miss that goal as he can hear an outcry rip right across the masses when they see the white horse proceeding up the staircase, which must be _quite_ an unexpected sight for most.

“Stop!” Meryn Trant yells atop of his voice once he catches sight of Jaime, already drawing his sword from its sheath to intercept him.

“I am late for the service, my apologies,” Jaime huffs.

“No one is allowed to enter from now on, the Queen’s order. Now go back or you will be removed,” Meryn retorts.

“I will not,” Jaime answers. “I have urgent business to attend inside that sept, and so I must depart, Ser Meryn.”

“Get him!” Meryn curses at the soldiers standing around, still quite perplex at the sight of a man riding up to the Sept with sword in hand. Jaime pulls back the hood from his face, so to no longer hide his identity, so to change what happened the last time. Because they should know who they are supposed to attack. They all should know so that no soldier falls victim to the revelation of a man’s identity ever again.

“That is Jaime Lannister!”

“The Kingslayer!”

Jaime can only so much as chuckle as the people keep shouting his name and the one that was given to him for what he considers his finest act to this day. Some things truly never seem to change.

_But they have to, today._

“Ser Meryn, it is either that I fight you here right now, or I spare your life and you give me pass,” Jaime warns him. “I have more important things to do than collect the debt you owe, for the brother’s life you took, because I did not forget that.”

Meryn aims his sword at Jaime, stepping closer and closer, his face distorted to an angry snarl, barking out orders at the brothers standing on the sides of the staircase. “You are not escaping me a second time.”

“I think I escaped you more often than that,” Jaime huffs. “And you and I both know who will win in a duel. So better lay down your sword and let me pass, Trant, before I change my mind and decide that making good on the promise I gave you after all.”

“I will get back what was taken from me because of you,” Ser Meryn hisses, his eyes impossibly darker with fury Jaime didn’t know was there until this very moment.

“What did _I_ take from _you_?” he huffs.

After all, it was this man who readily collected the shreds of the life Jaime left behind when he leapt from the tower. He happily assaulted the people of the city to further his power, to see people shake in fear and not ask questions when he entered a brothel. Jaime heard those stories and has no reason to doubt them. So truly, what would he have taken from him that he didn’t take for himself?

However, the man does not answer any of those questions, only ever growls as he swings his blade at Jaime. While being on a horse certainly gives him some advantage, Jaime is also aware that Honor does not have as much of a good footing on those stairs, which means that any wrong step may result in the steed to fall and tumble down – and tear him along. A small smile flashes across his features when he feels the vibrations of his new sword when he lets the blade rain down on Meryn for the first time. There is nothing quite like Valyrian steel, he knew that before, but this blade seems almost magically made to fit his purposes. Trant is able to dodge, but then receives a blow to the side that knocks him against the stone railing to his left.

With gritted teeth, he yells, “Get him! Get him now! Get this bastard!”

Meryn sounds just like he did back when Jaime got Arya outside the city gates, which only ever reminds him of the blood dried on his clothes, of the young brother who did no wrong in the world other than seeing a man he once knew and calling out his name. And yet, this man won’t see the sin in that execution, in having taken that brother’s life. He will see the sin in Jaime taking something precious to him, _whatever it may be_ , but he will not see the wrong of his own ways, which seems to be the kind of sickness that has infested the entire city. However, Jaime will worry about that later. While his heart is aching for the brother who left his life for a memory that escaped his lips, calling out Jaime’s name, he has the living to defend before he can avenge the dead.

_And that is what I am to do. And that is what I will do, whether the Seven approve of it or not. There is no sin in living._

Jaime rolls his wrist while letting his gaze wander over his former brothers, some of whom he doesn’t even know as they were recruited after he was discharged for his “act of treason,” waiting for the first soldier to rush forward. After all, they will know who he is by now and will likely have been sworn in to go after Jaime this time, after the loss of their brother made them freeze, which allowed for the former Lord Commander’s swift escape outside the city gates.

_But I cannot afford to show mercy with you, my brothers. If you come charging, I will pay you back in kind, because what you defend is what I am to bring down._

Yet, a strange thing happens when Jaime fails to detect any movement beside Meryn slowly turning his head in direction of the other knights wearing the White.

“Get him, I said! He is a criminal! I order you to take him down! Take him down!”

“You are not our Lord Commander, not anymore,” one knight about the age of the young man who left his life outside the city gates proclaims, his hazel eyes fixed on Ser Meryn, whose features could not be any more distraught as the uproar carries all the way to the back of the crowd gathered around the Sept, bound to listen, bound to see.

Because he can no longer hide away, the way he has done numerous times before. And this time, Ser Meryn will not be able to fire arrows at everyone who bore witness to his weakness, to what he seems to have lost, namely the title he was so eager to take from Jaime after he was gone.

“You will not disobey me,” Meryn snarls.

“We cannot, because we do not have to obey you,” the knight retorts. “You killed my friend, our brother. You lost any right to give us orders, for you have committed a sin beyond forgiveness, to us.”

Jaime can do nothing much but stare as some knights seemingly still loyal to the recently discharged Lord Commander of the Queensguard mean to come to Trant’s aid, only to be intercepted by younger and older knights alike, some of whom Jaime remembers, some of whom he still has to get to know. Yet, they move into their paths, stop them, stop them from stopping him.

The young knight looks at Jaime for a long moment. “He was my best friend.”

“He was brave and loyal. And he did not deserve to die for this madness,” Jaime tells him, meaning every word of it. The Gods will know that he didn’t mean for the deaths of any of his brothers, some of whom he trained. He didn’t mean for their grievance. He meant to lead them for as long as he was a Lord Commander.

Meryn comes charging at Jaime, then, but Jaime sees him from the corner of his eye fast enough to let Honor stand up on his hind legs and kick the man over the side of the stairs. Trant screams as he goes down, only for laughter to erupt in the crowds to attest that the man is still drawing a living breath.

“Right in the manure!” one old woman croons, sounding well delighted at the circumstance.

“Seems like the White’s got a bit soiled, aye!” a man laughs, but then the mood seems to shift as more and more people head that way, chanting the words he could not help repeating:

“Get him!”

“Get him!”

“Get him!”

Jaime would love to take delight in the man’s shame, but that is something he will have to savor later, if such a time is to exist for them, but for now, he has to worry about getting passage into the Sept.

“Brothers, go back into position! We are to guard the doors! Remember the one order our Queen gave to us!” the young brunet shouts. “No one leaves the Sept!”

Jaime expects the man to charge him, but instead, the lad resumes his position to guard the stairs. He gives Honor the spurs to make the steed climb the rest of the stairs, and to his great shocks, his former brothers don’t put up a fight, they let him pass. A smile flashes across his lips.

_The Queen seemingly forgot to tell them specifically not to let the Kingslayer inside. I thank you, my brothers, for breaking the laws while keeping your vows. Maybe there is hope for the likes of us after all._

And so he rides on, praying that Arya will have found a way to open the gates for him, or else this mission may be over before it ever truly began.

* * *

 

Tyrion sits on the windowsill, chewing on his lower lip pensively. The sun is still not where it ought to be, not yet chasing the moon as much as his brother chases the mannish woman whom he met amidst a battlefield. He already had to take up the seat by the window because Brienne seemed keen on flying towards it with any intention to make her way to the Great Sept of Baelor, if only to be by the man’s side, even when still stuck in the shape of a bird.

If only Cersei had understood that even this curse could not keep the two apart. Who knows what would have been prevented, if only the woman had not let herself be consumed by jealousy and rage. After all, it seems so entirely pointless when you open your eyes to what the two continue to be to one another, even when cursed to be eternally apart, their connection finds a way, keeps clawing at it, chewing, biting.

However, Tyrion is long since past the point to wallow in those past mistakes, it is something he cannot afford anymore, not after he left those clay cups at the septry for good. Today is the day future is written, for better or worse. The ink of the past has long since dried on the page, but the one for the future is still rests in the ink jar, waiting to be given over to the history of the page with the brush of a feather.

“I told you that we were supposed to go to the Western part of Flea Bottom. Now we are running late.”

“The message will reach across all of the Seven Kingdoms soon enough, brother. A delay won’t keep that message from changing the world.”

“And yet, we cannot afford to wander around aimlessly much longer. And to be sure, we are not taking your shortcut again. We will walk this road till the end.”

“As you will.”

Tyrion watches the two Sparrows walk down the alleyway. One of them holds the same kind of scroll he saw on the septa and Sparrow he observed earlier the day when he slipped away into the city. Tyrion knows that the Sparrows have since expanded their influence particularly in Flea Bottom and the rest of the city that suffers most from hunger at the hands of a Queen who cannot seem to be bothered to make sure her people are fed and clothed and cared for, a role the High Sparrow readily assumed for himself when he opened up his soup kitchens and visited the orphanages almost on a daily basis. The poorest seemed most perceptive to the ideas the High Sparrow mentioned in his sermons, because in contrast to the other Pillar, he gave them the feeling that he was foremost concerned with _their_ salvation, with them, their suffering, their way to the Seven Heavens.

_Even though he had his great part in causing it, and has to this very day, but the good High Sparrow wouldn’t want them to know about that, would he?_

It is almost curious to think about, for Tyrion at least. One should think that the other parts of the city, those hosting the rich, would run the highest risk of shaking the empire the Two Pillars built up from within, but he is certain of that one thing: If a revolution is to take place, it will start here in Flea Bottom. Because that is where the people are. That is where the threat was born that had Cersei move as far as she did. The shouts for someone the likes of Ser Duncan the Tall to rule did not begin in the alleys where the rich reside, it began where the poorest of the poor gather in inns and market places to trade moldy bread and eat _bowls o’ brown_. And if they had known that a plain woman was in just as plain sight this whole time, perhaps that revolution his sister was so afraid of would actually have happened before she would have had any chance to stop it. Because Flea Bottom may host the poor, but it also hosts the many, a lesson the High Sparrow has advantage of over the Queen of Westeros for a long time. You need the commonfolk, you need them on your side, because if they rise against you, they have the power to tear you down.

Robert’s Rebellion also started out small, started with one man having had enough, for one man chasing after his betrothed and never quite moving past that, for which his later wife had to suffer, Tyrion is aware. However, it showed that one stone set into motion can bring forth an avalanche that has the capacity to tear down an empire built over hundreds and hundreds of years.

It takes one man’s action, a sword through the back of a Mad King, to bring an empire to falter and collapse under the weight of its own sin.

Tyrion looks back down to the Sparrows as they pass by their inn.

He knows that he made a promise to Jaime, and it is the furthest thing from his mind to forego his vows a second time, and yet, of that Tyrion is certain, victory will be short-lived if the people of King’s Landing are made to pledge allegiance to the High Sparrow. That would make the likes of Jaime and Brienne their second target after the Queen.

With a sigh, he turns back around to the hawk, hopping on and off any piece of furniture the bird can find. She is about as eager to get out as he is.

“You want to fight, I know. And strangely so, it seems that… so do I. So what do we do about that, hm?”

The hawk turns to him, tilting the head to the side.

“What do we do now?”

* * *

 

“What do I do now?” Arya mutters under her breath, her eyes racing back and forth between the High Sparrow giving an inflammatory speech to expose the Queen as a Kingslayer in her own way, having used Lancel to kill Robert in her stead.

“She came to me one night, dressed in only just her night robe.”

“I forgot my own honor as I gave in to sin, gave in to my sinful nature, my weak flesh. And she gave herself over to sin as she forgot her vows, forgot the nature of our relation, too.”

“I killed the King for her, because she asked me for it. Because she told me that she was in danger, and in my weak mind, I believed her and did her bidding. I let her make me into a Kingslayer.”

“I removed the King’s last will, slipped into his chamber as he laid dying and no one was around, because she asked me for it and I was weak. A will that was not his last will, but the will of the woman who gave it to me, to declare her Queen, her and no one else.”

While Arya knows those things, it is quite shocking to see the people react to those revelations, the sighs and the horror, and yet, this sight of hope in their eyes that the High Sparrow is now letting justice ring, even though she knows for a fact that he does not. He only ever means to use her wickedness to cover up his own.

_And here he is, speaking of justice._

“The Queen unjustly claimed the Throne as hers! She never should have sat the Iron Throne, never should have had the power over you! To make you starve! To break your backs! And yet, she did! And yet, when given the chance, she did not confess! I learned this from no one but Lancel Lannister, a man who was brave enough to speak of the sins committed and search forgiveness in the eyes of the Seven!”

He stops when he hears a light laughter from behind him since the Queen seems perfectly unfazed by what he proclaims.

“Are you yet done with your accusations? Because I keep thinking that you are making yourself ridiculous. This lad would say whatever you put into his head, the way he has always done,” Cersei huffs, giving Lancel a stern look. “And anyway, where is your proof for any of this? It is his word against mine. It is your word against mine. My good friend, while I know you are devoted to the Seven does not make you their voice. So unless you have something better to bring up against your Queen, I would suggest we all return to celebrating the Mother. After all, that is what you wanted to do all along.”

“And I am, for the Mother is also the Father, whose judges us all,” the High Sparrow retorts. “To be sure, I am not yet done. We are not yet done. We will keep fighting. Because this has gone on for long enough.”

This woman wanted to act fast, and if her threat is apparently not empty, then the High Sparrow is willing to pull out his remaining trumps as well.

“We have proof. Because we have the last will written by Robert Baratheon,” the High Sparrow then announces, since he is not the only one who kept his trumps hidden to play them out in due time, to teach her what the beast of man taught him: Fear.

For a moment, Cersei can do nothing much but stare. She knows she told Lancel to burn it. She told him to cast it into the fire at once. And by the time, the fool was too enchanted by her sweet promises of the life they could have together, the sighs she made to assure him of his manhood he didn’t know were just to get over with it quicker, and the feel of a Queen who said to him that she would be his and his alone while they kissed and slipped under the sheets, if not for Robert standing in the way. That lad never should have gone out of his way, out of her way, and disobey her.

_That has to be a lie. He could not have resisted a Queen. He could not have resisted me. Not by that point of time. He was wax in my hands. He did all of my biddings. All of them! The High Sparrow has to bluff, there is no other explanation!_

“And… do you have that magical parchment with you?” Cersei taunts, hoping that no one hears the slight tremor in her voice. “Or does it only exist in your deeply held faith?”

“I don’t. I would be a fool to bring it here, wouldn’t I? But rest assured that it exists. And once you will have your Trial by Faith, you shall see it, as all people will, but for now, this is to bring charges against a Queen who thought she was untouchable by the laws of Gods and men,” the High Sparrow tells her.

He had this weapon aimed at her all the while, well aware of the damage it may cause, but the High Sparrow also knew that a bolt fired too early may harm the flesh, but not kill the enemy. So he had to wait, had to talk sweet to a false idol, had to please her, had to bear her decisions as his own to establish himself as the Pillar of the Faith.

_But it all happened in the name of the Seven. And they will forgive me for it._

“Nonsense,” Cersei huffs, shaking her head, trying her best to feel the weight of the crown sitting atop her head to assure herself that none of this matters. Even if this is no bluff and Lancel dared to keep the parchment, she will simply have it be found and destroyed. For what does she have men she can pay for the task and their silence? None of this matters. All that matters is that she gets out of here at the right time to see the High Sparrow fly far too high for him to ever draw a living breath again, alongside her wretched, treacherous cousin and all those little pests in the crowd who dare to look at her with misgiving now.

“It is not,” the High Sparrow argues. “The truth will be known, no matter your actions in here just now, no matter our actions here right at this moment. You will be brought to justice. You will be brought down. So that the people may rise again!”

Cersei narrows her eyes as she can hear the people almost cheer at the words of that man, though they are too cautious, well aware of the presence of her new Lord Commander. And that is truly the one thing she loathes the High Sparrow for beside the fact that she always knew him to be an enemy of the highest order, the way with which he can make a crowd change loyalties.

From further afar, Arya keeps observing with increasing worry as the two leaders keep verbally stabbing each other, whereas the Queen’s new watchdog makes sure that no one moves without the Queen’s explicit consent, which is why Arya makes sure to keep her distance to that man in particular.

If it weren’t for their own mission, the young girl would take any delight in seeing the Two Pillar trying to bring each other down. She would watch them crumble and fall under the weight of their own wrongs. Yet, they can’t afford that. If the High Sparrow is quick to gather the masses against Cersei, there is no sure way to tell whether Queen will last long enough to lay eyes upon those she cursed to see them apart. However strange it may seem, the two are needed alive for now to be brought to judgment, so they can see the nature of their own sin and their ultimate reversal. Similarly, having the Queen be executed by her watchdog may not play into their favor, because Cersei alone in her power may cause more harm than she currently can with the High Sparrow at least partly being able to hold his ground against her.

However, Jaime and Brienne have to find a way into this Sept, that is what counts, and Arya has to find a way to open the gates despite the fact that the Sparrows have positioned themselves before them, ordered not to let anyone out. How is she supposed to achieve that then, though? If Arya were to expose herself in the vain hope that it may upset the people long enough for her to open the gates in the hope that Jaime is just outside, ready to jump in on Honor’s back before they can shut the gates again, it may very well backfire. It may not work. After all, she is just a boyish looking girl even the Queen could not recognize when she saw her. And considering what is currently going on, little attention will be paid to what is going on with some shouting girl.

_That can’t be it._

She could fight them. Before anyone can notice, Arya could well take down at least two of them, but considering the sheer amount of Sparrows inside the Sept, her chances would greatly diminish to be of any aid past that act.

Arya’s eyes fixate on one of the big, golden candle sockets that have been put all around the circular upper part of the Sept to engulf the center with light. No one seems to pay attention to those things when Lancel Lannister continues to make his testimony, not holding back even the smallest of details of a Queen seducing her still too young cousin to make him to her bidding, woefully admitting to his wrongdoings by agreeing to the act of treason. Though Arya can’t help but wonder why the Queen has not since marched out of the Sept, because that is what she would expect that wretched woman to do. Yet, there she sits, listening, waiting, only ever smirking at the accusations, as though they carried no weight.

 _What is she waiting for?_ Arya wonders, but then pushed the thought aside again, in favor of the unattended candles. She reaches into her pouch to take out the oil lamp Tyrion gave to her. While it proved to hold her back in the crypts, it may be Jaime’s way inside now.

“Let’s just hope Honor is not afraid of a bit of fire,” Arya mutters to herself as she opens the small cap of the tank. Once that is done, she ducks her head and starts to walk past the Sparrows with their clubs in hand, who thankfully ignore the plain girl as their attention is entirely focused on their brothers accusing the Queen of treason, incest, and regicide, proclaiming the people as the one true heirs to the Iron Throne. Thus, it goes unnoticed by them that she pours a line of very potent oil in front of them. That is until a candle accidentally drops on the line of oil and the Sparrows jump away out of shock, some to tap out the flames that start to climb up their roughspun robes. Arya sprints forward, her small frame allowing her to stand between door and the line of fire without suffering its heat too much, and undoes the lock. The Sparrows already mean to seize her, but just as the doors fall open, Arya has to jump away as a white steed almost seems to fly over the flames. And atop the horse sits a man dressed in black, holding a marvelous blade in hand that almost shines like a white slate in the candle light.

“What is this about? I said that the doors are to be barricaded!” the High Sparrow calls out.

“My apologies, High Septon, but it seems that you forgot to invite me, and that even though I have so much to say,” Jaime snarls, now that he sees the man who had the effrontery that Brienne died for good reason, that it had to be, that she was full of sin, was wicked, bad.

Arya watches as the people’s murmurs start to climb higher and higher, louder and louder, their gazes rushing back and forth between Jaime, the Queen, and the High Sparrow.

“… It appears I have walked into something different than the celebration of the Mother,” Jaime notes, craning his neck.

“They want to charge the Queen for treason,” Arya tells him.

Jaime smirks at her.

_As it appears, we were right about that, Tyrion will be pleased… if I get to tell him, that is. But even if not, this will hardly stay a secret._

There will be no more secrets of that kind past this day. Jaime will fight for that the same way he will fight for their curse to be broken, for their truth to be known.

Because it is a greater price at stake for them than their own salvation. What is at stake here is an entire city that continues unaware of what tendrils twirl around in the darkness of the sewers, unaware of what happens in the black cells, so only not to fall for the sin the High Sparrow wants to have them believe is such whereas the Queen is happy to use her power over them to keep her precious Iron Throne.

_But all of that ends today. All of it. Once and for all._

“Oh, how convenient. Because I came here for the very same reason, just that I would want to add the High Sparrow to the list of thieves who should be judged by the Seven,” Jaime proclaims loudly then, reckoning that he found his way of improvising a distraction. After all, Tyrion said he had a talent for it, right?

And Arya can’t deny her own fascination how easily the man she could kick half the time manages to capture the crowd almost instantly.

“We were denied the rights the High Sparrow always proclaims are the center of our faith. We were judged without judge, without justice, not that of Gods or men. And so I came here today to collect that debt,” Jaime continues, the crowd following him with their eyes, their whispering mouths.

“You told me that you had him,” the High Sparrow snarls to the Queen, who seems about as distraught as he is.

After all, the Queen said they had him, and the High Sparrow did not doubt it. Why would she lie about the matter? That was not for her own gain, now was it? How did the beast of man get in here? How can her interfere with what the High Sparrow wants to see as the fulfillment of a plan he has built over the years?

How is all of that possible?

“That is what I was being told,” the Queen mutters, already mulling over who dared to give her wrong information. What of her hunter? What of the news that reached her that he entered the city with the wolf and with the bird dead?

_What if she is…?_

“I, Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin, former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and Queensguard, the Kingslayer, demand that the Two Pillars pay for their crimes committed against myself. And Brienne of Tarth, daughter of Lord Selwyn Tarth, the Evenstar,” Jaime calls out, sword raised, his grimace an angry, determined snarl. “I know that a Trial by Faith cannot help us, because when we demanded it, you did not give it to us.”

He looks sternly at the High Sparrow, who, in a moment of weakness, bows his head with the slightest hint of shame, though that is by no means enough in Jaime’s mind.

But it makes no difference now, he plays a greater game, one that needs more time, just a bit, for the planets themselves to move into the right constellation, so that the moon can stop chasing the sun, so that the sun can stop chasing the moon.

So that they find one another, even if it may be amidst a battlefield for both to collapse into the sky.

“Instead, I demand what the Gods have given to us: In the eyes of the good people of King’s Landing, in the eyes of the Seven, I demand a Trial by Combat against the Two Pillars,” Jaime announces, not surprised by the wave of murmurs rising to the point of counting as a single, loud voice, carrying over their own.

His eyes remain fixed on the High Sparrow and the Queen.

He is not afraid of dying.

He is not afraid of the monster his sister created to fend him off.

And if the Gods are true, if the Gods are just, they will grant him what was denied to them back when it mattered. The swords will decide, fate will decide, and no queen, no septon, will have a say in this.

This is his choice.

Their choice.


	12. Darkness, Dares, and Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final battle ensues, and it has yet to be determined who turns out victor in the eyes of the Seven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thanks for sticking around. So, this is the second last installment (OMG). I will add an epilog, but this is the grand finale for the action. Though I will warn you that writing action scenes is still not my forte. While I read up on some things, it simply isn't my greatest strength. I also hope you will forgive me for funking a bit with time or else I wouldn't get people in the right place at the exact same time, so I am taking some liberties with regards to that for drama's sake. I mean DRAMA is nice, right? Right?!
> 
> I hope you are going to like it the way I shredded it anyway. 
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

Darkness.

That is the one thing Arya can see in both the eyes of the Queen and the High Sparrow as they remain fixed on the man who just rode in on a white steed, through the flames, to have the crowd sing a different tune than the one the High Sparrow wanted them to hum, to have a Queen having to move out of her way and keep her in place, when she seems keen in wanting to get away from the accusations held against her.

“You would do best laying down your arms, Ser,” Cersei tells her twin brother in a cool voice, standing up from her chair slowly. “This is a fight you are bound to lose, I warn you. If you cooperate, you will only ever be taken into custody to await trial for your crimes against the Crown and Faith. This is a last offer by the Crown, you should not refuse.”

_Like you never should have. Because that was not your choice to make. It was mine. Mine. Mine. You were supposed to be, until you proved to be disloyal, an utter disappointment._

“I won’t ever cooperate with you again. You betrayed me often enough. And even if I am bound to lose… it won’t stop me from fighting, _sister_ ,” Jaime answers, getting off of Honor’s back. “Be it that this is my last day on this earth, but I won’t stand down. I will stand up, for us, and for the people you two have been lying to in order to control them, to push them into the false belief that they are at fault for what was the beast of your own creation from the very beginning. Because it was not their sin that turned this city wretched, it was yours, yours all along.”

He lets his gaze rest on either Pillar for a long moment.

“This is not the time or place for such travesty,” the High Sparrow snaps. “Get him, my brothers! Get this traitor! Get him!”

He cannot have the beast of man interfere, he cannot have that nightmare become reality after he was plagued night for night with the image of the man coming upon him, biting into the wave and tearing it to the ground before it could rise and cleanse the city. No, the beast of man must not win, sin is not allowed to win. It must be defeated, drowned. For that, he was willing to mark his own damnation, for that, he was willing to play judge instead of letting the Faith decide. The High Sparrow cannot have this vision become reality. He cannot have the golden eyes creep back out of the darkness to consume him.

_It has to stop, it has to stop right now!_

The men of the Faith Militant already mean to jump Jaime, but the former Lord Commander only ever flashes his sword at them to make them hesitate, because no matter their determination, a man knows that a club is nothing compared to a blade of Valyrian steel. Arya well recognizes the blade since Tyrion showed it to her the night before. This is the kind of metal meant to cut through years of torment and false accusations.

“You can try, but you will fail, rest assured,” Jaime warns them, before turning his attention back to the front, back to the people who did Brienne and him such unbelievable harm. “I have no intention to kill your men. I have no intention to kill anyone who doesn’t ask for it. But those who challenge me… I will cut them down if need be. If you want to be true to your ideals and give power to the people, to _your_ people, you should grant me the rights of the Gods, High Septon. And you, as the Queen, should abide its rules the same way. All I demand is a Trial by Combat, no more, no less.”

“I think that is a bad idea,” Arya whispers.

“You come a bit late with that piece of advice,” Jaime retorts. “I am playing for time, remember?”

“No, you don’t understand, it’s…,” Arya wants to say, but she is cut off by the Queen, “He shall have it.”

“He shall _not_!” the High Sparrow snarls. “We are here to judge you for your crimes, not go about another matter instead.”

“And I would gladly have you list all of her crimes, High Septon, but so long you refuse to recount your own, I am afraid I must insist to do it in your stead,” Jaime intercedes. “Because it is the both of you who have spread injustice, and now it is your time to pay. If not for the misfortune brought upon an innocent woman and myself by my sister of all people, the same woman who would mean to tear you down as much as I want to would be here with me to charge you both right at this moment. For matters of fairness already. After all, it’s Two Pillars against one man now, but so be it.”

_If only the moon finally met the sun._

“Ser Gregor, the new Lord Commander, will be the Crown’s champion. And since I doubt that this treacherous witch will have any capacity to join us today, I’d say she is free to step in if she can make it by some wink of fate,” Cersei announces.

Because there is no way that they can both be in one place at the same time. She made sure of it. She made sure that this woman would never have him. That this great beast of a woman could never take anything away from her ever again. Cersei made sure of it.

Because there is no such thing as a day without a night and a night without a day.

 No sword can bring sun and moon from the sky.

The Queen then turning her attention to the High Septon. “And after that, I am sure that we will still have plenty of time to discuss the _little_ matter you have in mind, High Sparrow, though I am still quite sure that none of this will ever leave this sept.”

She knows for a fact that it will not. None of this matters. Whatever Jaime may dare to bring forth, no matter what the High Sparrow already said against her, it will be cleansed by the fire, carried away by it, until nothing but ash remains.

“I will not allow it!” the High Sparrow retorts. “This is not the justice of the Gods.”

Cersei looks at him, adding with a lowered voice, “I have no trouble letting Ser Gregor handle you first. So unless you want to stay on this earth at least a while longer, you will shut your mouth now.”

The High Sparrow looks ahead to the beast of man and another kind of beast of man approaching one another. That was not what he saw in his visions. There was darkness and out of the darkness came two golden orbs. He knew the Kingslayer would come for him, but he thought it would be later. He thought the wave would come before the wolf could come consume him.

_This is not right._

Jaime’s eyes widen when he can hear the man’s footsteps before he can even see him. For a moment, he expected someone the likes of Ser Meryn Trant to step forward, but not… _this_.

“ _That’s_ what I meant,” Arya mutters.

“Well, _that_ comes a bit late,” Jaime huffs. “But then again, Brienne is almost as tall as he is. How difficult can it be, right?”

He swallows when the man draws a sword about twice the weight of his own.

_Right?_

“Very much?” Arya answers.

“Supposedly,” Jaime admits. “But it makes no difference. After all, I am the distraction. Now make sure you stay down. I can’t have you get into any more trouble.”

“You are the one talking,” Arya huffs. She reckons she is the one in least danger right at this point of time, but she long since understood that with Jaime and Brienne, she has two people caring for her more than they likely ever would for themselves.

He sucks in a deep breath before making a step forward while the gigantic man motions to the center of the Great Sept of Baelor, the entire crowd flinching away from him out of sheer fright.

“We play on time. We just need a bit more time. A bit more time,” he keeps whispering, before letting his worried grimace change into a smirk as he flips his blade inside his palm. “Well, then it seems we are to dance. I hope you won’t step on my toes, though.”

The Queen sits back down, blowing air out through her nostrils. This is not the way she had it planned, but as she keeps reminding herself, it does not matter. She has the wildfire. She has Ser Gregor. No harm can come to her that those two things cannot solve. Because that is their sole reason of existence now.

_I am their sole reason. I am. No one else but me._

“And what do you think does that achieve?” the High Sparrow mutters at her. “I thought you wanted to use this _man_ to ensure your safe passage out of the Sept.”

Yet, here she is, waiting, as though she didn’t have any idea of what she says lies in the crypts beneath the Great Sept of Baelor.

“And that is still so. But, as it turned out, there is now a _nuisance_ to get rid of first, my own brother no less. The good Ser Gregor is only ever doing my bidding, which is to get out of the way whatever and whoever may be in my path,” Cersei answers, still sure of her victory. Because she knows that she can control the green fire underneath the sept. She still has time to get out and to safety. She can make sure that the High Sparrow and his men and women will stay in here, though. She has her men who may have failed to keep her brother out, but should be able to keep a door shut. Even if that means some sacrifice of good soldiers. After all, they are replaceable, she learned.

_Even a Lord Commander._

So long the doors close behind her, no revolution, no trial by combat, no trial by faith, can beat her down, can do so much as shake her throne, her crown.

The wretched woman will be found. Cersei will see to that. This beast can’t be far away, after all. Or else her brother wouldn’t be here in the city, as inseparable as they prove to be, despite the fact that Cersei saw to it that they would forever be cast apart. And this time, Cersei will put her in a cage and see the life drain out of her big blue eyes, let Qyburn experiment all he likes. And who knows, maybe Ser Gregor will leave enough of her brother so she can make him watch, so that he understands what true betrayal entails. If so, she will savor her brother’s tears and make him suffer for all the times he let her down, betrayed her trust.

“I will leave this sept in due time, I told you, and nothing has changed about that,” Cersei continues. “Because I am playing a far greater game than you are, I have always been. Though it raises one question…”

“Which would be?” the High Sparrow asks.

“You now know what awaits you, because I told you. You know what this will cost you, you and your men. And yet, you stand here and do not even attempt to take flight, make another try with your precious Faith Militant. What keeps you here when you could order your Sparrows to retreat? What keeps you here when you know that your mission has failed?” Cersei questions him, her eyes fixed on Ser Gregor, her strong arm, the soldier no one can beat, can take away from her, the soldier who is to her service, is hers, only hers.

“I am playing a greater game, too,” the High Sparrow answers, his eyes fixed on Jaime as he keeps dancing around the gigantic man with a kind of surety that seems to be inherent to his body. “It rings higher than any voice can reach, it rings above the bells of the Great Sept of Baelor by far. And if that means that sacrifices have to be made… then that is so.”

The message was given out. It was sent, it cannot be undone again. The people will hear of the truth he makes known herein. His Sparrows and septas will stand amidst the crowds of people all around King’s Landing to let them know of the truth of their Queen. They know where to find the evidence, so even if the Queen succeeds to leave, even if they are meant to die in here, the message cannot be taken back.

And that will inevitably lead to the Crown’s fall.

And only the Faith will stand.

By the time the Queen may actually succeed to leave this sept, though the High Sparrow still dares to doubt that because his Sparrows are strong and even stronger willed as their faith gives them a power the Queen’s followers will never possess, she will be welcomed by the truth of her own making. By the time Cersei Lannister sets foot on the streets, the people will throw it all back at her. It will be her walk of shame, from which she cannot hide anymore. And the sparrows will fly high into the air, carry with them their spirits, so that the justice of the Seven will sweep across the entire city, and so the Gods will, it is about to reach as far as the furthest corners of the Seven Kingdoms.

_Because this is the world of men, and it is the world of the Gods that is his intention._

And that is a kind of game exceeding the worldly measure the Queen believes to be the highest good. It exceeds any thirst for revenge the beast of man may wish to execute by challenging this other beastly man to duel.

They all mean nothing in the end.

Only the message matters.

And that is the Song of the Seven.

“Then it seems we are bound to see what happens to determine whose game is greater,” Cersei says, looking back over to the two men getting into position to cross swords.

“It appears so,” the High Sparrow agrees, his eyes still fixed on the man who taught him fear for himself, the one who succeeded and still succeeds to make him tremble.

That man must go.

They all must go.

And if it takes flames for the wave he set forth to be launched, then so be it.

Sometimes lava has to pour into the sea to create new land.

Sometimes fire has to be tempered by water.

And other times, the fire has to be kept afloat just a while before it can drop into the blue ground below, so that the island springs forth at the right spot, to inhabit the many rather than the rich, the false idols, and those who think that their game could ever be greater than that of the Gods themselves.

Jaime, meanwhile, tries to get a feel for that man’s style, in the vain hope that it will give him some advantage over what the takes to be a very, very simple-minded man. _If you can even call him a man._ However, as they keep circling around one another, it doesn’t take until long that Gregor blindly lunges at him, no style whatsoever in the way he swings his blade, just brute force, a wish to destroy, annihilate. When Jaime sees it solidly cutting into the marble edge of the staircase close to him, he is made painfully aware that if he gets his limbs stuck between a hard place and that blade, not much will remain of him. The former Lord Commander is quick to slide off to the other side before the gigantic man can gather his heavy sword again, which has Jaime bear at least one hope: Gregor is slow, which makes escaping a blow easier than it would be against a more agile knight.

“The Queen had a woman wrongly accused of laying with me, though her honor, to this day, is unbesmirched!” Jaime calls out, walking circles and trying to find a way past the giant’s defenses to land a strike. After all, he is here for the distraction, is here to buy time, for her and for him, for them, for the sun to meet the moon at last.  “A woman who was like you! May have served you ale in one of the inns down Flea Bottom! Brienne of Tarth is her name! She was accused and thrown into the black cells for what should have been no more than a misunderstanding!”

He opens his mouth to go on to retell their story, but that is when Gregor makes a fast move to the left that Jaime did not see coming, which forces Jaime to dodge the blow, which is hard enough to send shivers down to his fingernails. Jaime almost goes to his knees when Gregor lets his blade rain down on him another time and another time, but he then manages to navigate their blades to his right to let them fall against the marble floor and then roll away before the heavy man can do so much as move. Jaime is quick to get up behind him to get some distance between him and Ser Gregor, his entire body still shaking from the impact of the blows. But he will not stop, he cannot, he will not.

“You have been lied to! We have been lied to! Because the Two Pillars wanted to have you believe that there is such a thing as justice in their city! But there was none when we demanded it, when you demanded it! No just trial, only ever a judge and punishment!” Jaime continues, gritting his teeth. He lets his gaze rise once to see and hear the people whispering, because of that he is sure, they all have their own story similar to theirs, a song to sing about pain and false accusations, of mothers ripped from their children, fathers deprived of their sons.

“The High Sparrow and the Queen wanted to force her into false confession, into a walk of shame, even though we both asked for the Gods’ justice, a Trial by Combat! Even though we both asked for a Trial by Faith! We would have won! We could have proven her innocence! We would have proven mine when it came to those very accusations, all of which rested on a bloody sheet from a cut and not from a taken maidenhead! But the Queen knew it! And the High Sparrow knew it! The Two Pillars were afraid of a woman who served ale at an inn! Imagine that! They were afraid of the Gods’ justice!” Jaime continues, swiftly side-stepping whenever Gregor means to seize him.

For a moment, Jaime dares to look back at Cersei and the High Sparrow. While he isn’t surprised to see the indifference in his sister’s eyes, it still pains him to see just that expression. As though none of it mattered, as though he never mattered, to her, to anyone. But Jaime knows that this story is important, that it has to be heard. This is different from the story he locked away, so no one would know of the wildfire. This is a story the people have to hear so that they finally open their eyes and see what is happening, what they let happen to themselves so long they throw their loyalty behind a man who tells them of their sins and how to absolve themselves of them, when he is the one bathing in his own wrongdoings to seize power, nothing but power.

“And then the Queen went even one step further! She accused Brienne of witchcraft, even though it was her own doing! Her Maester without chains, her Lord Hand, saw to it that she was cast into a bird! A bird! A hawk! Only to give the High Sparrow any reason to allow for the woman to be brought away, to be killed, for no one to know, for no one to see, though the Gods command it differently! Isn’t that so? Isn’t it?!” Jaime cries out, the anguish heavy in his voice as he recalls just those moments in the tower that tore him to pieces.

Yet, there comes no answer from the Two Pillars, of course it does not. Or else they would admit to their own wrongdoings, their own wickedness. And that won’t ever happen, because they have their own goals in mind, they only have themselves in mind, even if that means stomping on the innocent.

And in that regard, they are no different from the King Jaime slew.

“But she was no witch! She was cursed! Like I was cursed! Into the shape of a wolf, every night for the rest of my time! By the Queen! And her Hand did the deed! And that for one and one reason only, because the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms was afraid! _Afraid_ of a tavern wench! Was afraid of the people! And if the High Sparrow had been right in his mind, he would have done best offering his support to Brienne instead of the Crown, if his intentions are true that he meant to overthrow an empire!” Jaime carries on, ducking away just in time as Ser Gregor means to strike at him. “But he, too, chose power over you! Over all of us!”

“What is he talking about?” the High Sparrow wants to know from the Queen.

She told him that the woman cast herself into animal shape, not the other way around. She told him that she had seen her aggressive behavior towards the former Lord Commander to make him commit sin together. That she saw the dark magic at work. She told him. And he believed, or didn’t he? For a moment, the High Sparrow can’t seem to recall. Did he repent for that, too? Did he pray for forgiveness for that crime or did he not know of it? Or did he only just repent for when it was too late and it was time to ensure the woman was dead so that the witchcraft would not spread?

_Who did I believe? And what did I do to further my influence? How comes I can suddenly no longer tell it apart, Mother, Father, Crone, Warrior, Smith, Maiden, Stranger? What is happening?_

“Do you even bother to listen?” Cersei huffs at the older man. “I thought you had given up all faith in the words of this _beast of man_.”

She looks over to her brother, then Ser Gregor. “End him! End him now! It is enough!”

 _It truly is._ All of this is far too much for her to bear. This is all pointless. Perhaps she never should have come, if only to spare herself this folly. None of those things matter, none of those people beside her matter.

“It is not enough! It is only enough once the debt is paid, Cersei!” Jaime retorts, barely managing to jump away from the giant’s next assault. “It’s only over once the truth is out in the world!”

 _But it won’t reach anyone, you fool,_ the Queen think to herself. _It will die with you, with them, inside this Sept. I will see to that. I will beat this prophecy. Once and for all._

“Because the truth is that her descent was the real threat to you,” Jaime carries on, barely parrying a blow from Ser Gregor aimed at his weak side. “But you did not succeed in ridding yourself of her, of me. We lived! We both did! Even when you tried to keep us apart by making of us beasts, you only ever exposed your own beastly nature!”

“You said that she died. I demanded a fast execution,” the High Sparrow mutters, feeling something unfamiliar rise within him. That is not how it should have been or how it should be. By this point of time, Lancel should have given his speech and he should rally the people to shout the names of the Seven as their new Kings and Queens. He knows that the Seven will throw him into the Seven Hells for having a woman he could not prove the guilt of be executed without trial. He passed judgment without consulting the Gods, to further his alliance with the devil wearing black and a silver crown.

“And you ever believed that you could make demands to a Queen?” is all Cersei has to say to him. “What a fool that makes you.”

“She cast magic on me, let her Maester do it for her, so that it would seem like Brienne put the spell on me! She wanted to keep me, wanted to keep us apart, wanted to teach me a lesson about disobeying her! And when they saw that Brienne did not break, no matter the beatings, no matter the times she spent in a prison cell on nonsense charges, the way so many of you and your loved ones have done, they wanted to get rid of her, both Pillars were willing to pass false judgment for their own interests, over and over again,” Jaime continues, daring to look at the crowd once to observe their reactions, before he is sent to the ground by Gregor flinging him to the side. Jaime groans as he quickly scrambles to his feet, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You lack a style,” Jaime taunts the man, which seems to aggravate him enough to make Gregor lunge at him, which allows Jaime to slip through the man’s open legs to the other side. “And a brain, for all it seems.”

Jaime’s lips flex into a pained grin when he hears some _ohs_ and _ahs_ from the people, indicating that they are happy he escaped that blow. While that does not make him sure of their alliance, it is quite uplifting to have the commoners on his side for once, instead of only ever whispering Kingslayer behind his back.

“They meant to force her into a walk of shame without confession! They meant to kill her without due process of either Crown or Faith! Because the High Sparrow wanted to win the Queen’s favor and the Queen wanted a partner in crime. Because she stood alone against a crowd in an uproar, shouting one name over and over, and it was not hers. It was not the High Sparrow’s. It was that of the heroes of the former days, of Ser Duncan the Tall,” Jaime keeps shouting. “They made us into monsters so that they could pretend to unite against such, when they were the monsters all along!”

He cries out when Gregor manages to land a blow to his left leg, though thankfully, the cut does not go too deep because Jaime was able to move away before he could take off the limb in one swift strike. “The Queen collaborated with the High Sparrow. What he may not have known is that the Queen had her very own reasons to want Brienne gone. Because she was afraid that she may seize the Throne, and so she had to go. Even if that meant to commit treason, if that meant false testimony, even if that meant to use witchcraft against an innocent woman and her own family!” Jaime calls out, shaking out his leg as he keeps circling away from Ser Gregor in the vain hope to keep parrying until Brienne comes here so they can put an end to the curse at least. And if there is one thing that makes him hopeful right at this moment, then it is the fact that the light has faded from the sky for a long time, thus making dark slates out of the colorful windows. If Brienne decides to come here and break the curse, it is only a matter of time until she will arrive.

_I just have to hold on as long as I can. And so long as there is might in my body, I will._

“Those two have been telling you lies! They told you that you are sinners, when it was them all along! The Queen as well as the High Sparrow! This man wants to hide behind his virtue! Behind his wish to serve the Seven! But the Seven did not command to kill an innocent woman, even though the truth was plain to see. Because he found she was worth the sacrifice of coming closer to his goal, his revolution, his claim to the Iron Throne, to power and power alone,” Jaime continues, not daring to slow down even when Gregor comes at him again with his heavy blade, almost knocking Jaime off his feet he swings the sword at him yet again.

“ _They_ are the beasts! _They_ are the monsters! _They_ are full of sin! And yet, they want to have you all believe that it was you all along and that they hold the solutions! But they don’t! They never have! They were the cause! And their actions hold no absolution! They hold only just damnation!” Jaime calls out as loudly as he can, so that everyone in the Sept can hear it. This time, he decides to charge Gregor, which takes the man by surprise enough to land a solid strike against his sword arm, though it seems to have little effect on the man, much to Jaime’s dismay. Jaime lets out a bellowed cry when the gigantic man simply kicks against his chest to make him almost fly backwards against the staircase leading down. For a moment, he cannot breathe and white flashes of light appear before his eyes.

 _Is this the end already?_ Jaime wonders for a fraction of a moment. _Have I failed my oaths yet again?_

The former Lord Commander tries to get his limbs to move again, but they will not follow his command, even when the giant of a man comes closer and closer, dragging his broad blade over the marble floor.

In the background, he can hear the small Stark daughter calling out his name, and while it gives Jaime great condolence to know that someone is having his side in this battle, it also fills him with grief that this may well be his last moment, and Brienne won’t be there. Because it is her voice he would want to hear last before he goes.

_To die in the arms of the woman I…_

“Ser Dunk!”

“Dunk?!”

“Where?!”

“But he is dead!”

“A ghost!”

“A ghost!”

“He came back!”

Jaime slowly turns his head to the entrance, his eyes burning from the light of the flames Arya likely ignited to give him a chance to slip inside, which keep anyone from closing the gates again, no matter the Sparrows efforts to put the flames out.

_Tyrion didn’t lie when he said that this oil could not be doused by water._

The heavy footsteps of the man approaching are no more than an echo inside Jaime’s head at this point of time, his eyes transfixed on the fire, the gates, waiting for a breath, for a way to move. However, that is when someone steps through the flames, a shadow at first, but the shadow soon turns into light as the flames by the doors and chandeliers cast the golden armor of the old Kingsguard into the most formidable shine.

For a moment, everything seems to stop, stand still. Some see a shadow from the past, others wonder who that strange knight in golden armor may be. Jaime notes the shield, oak, with a tree under a falling star, but since he does not believe in ghosts, it leaves just one conclusion on his mind, and it makes him smile through the pain he feels spread in his limbs.

“Just what is going on here?” the Queen mutters, not believing what is happening all at once when she thought she would have to deal with no one other than the High Sparrow and his little group of birds. 

“It appears… you have to make good on your promise, sister,” Jaime manages to say, his lungs finally filling with some air again. “The second contestant against the Two Pillars… has finally arrived.”

“That cannot be!” the High Sparrow calls out.

“It cannot…,” Cersei mutters, too, suddenly winded, eyes wide with realization. Qyburn said that it was impossible for them to be in one place at the same time. For what did they have them turned into wolf and hawk? They were never supposed to see each other again in the flesh. They were supposed to be kept eternally apart. Qyburn assured her that there would never be a day without a knight or a night without a day. He told her! And she relied on him! She trusted his words!

_Oh, he will pay. Just you wait and see for assuring your Queen of something, only to have it turn out wrong. No one lies to me! No one!_

“It can,” Jaime argues between ragged breaths.

Because this is a day without a night.

Because the moon finally caught the sun.

Jaime only then sees that Gregor used the moment of distraction to pull his sword up and into his back to strike him down, and for a moment, Jaime believes it to be the better end, but the end no less. Yet, he does not feel the blow of the blade, only ever hears the sigh of a blade made of Valyrian steel, and when he dares to open his eyes again, he sees the golden knight dodge the blow, only to use the momentum to knock the man off to the side and crashing against the stairs with the aid of the oak shield. Jaime can only let out a labored huff when he is pulled to his feet and away from the gigantic man.

“Are you alright?” Jaime can hear a familiar voice call out, and it makes his heart beat twice as hard, twice as fast, for every second spent apart.

“I have seen better days. You are quite late,” he laughs with heaving chest.

“I had to put on an armor first. After all, you’ve gone off without me, even though the plan was another.”

“I could not help it! We had to hurry up. And anyway, you are stubborn till the bitter end, aren’t you?” Jaime says with a smirk. 

“I made my choice to fight alongside you long before this day, so it’s not so much being stubborn as it is making good on a promise.”

“As you will, then,” Jaime agrees, a big smile now spreading across his face, twisting his blade in his hand another time while the heavy man struggles to get back up, after all, strength is not everything in a fight, a lack of movement can make it hard for a man like that to even so much as get up.

“A trial by combat, though?”

He shrugs. “I had to play on time.”

“You always understand it to get us into trouble.”

“That is hardly any news,” Jaime huffs, but that is when Gregor finally stands and fixes on the two standing next to each other. “So? May I have this dance, my lady?”

The moon walking under the sun, the woman walking in the echo of the past of the Kingsguard wordlessly tightens her grip on the sword familiar to her as much as it is to him.

And the sun dancing under the moon, the man listening to the echo of himself that never made it into the pages of the Book of the Brothers cannot help but smile as he, too, fixes his grip on the blade unfamiliar to both, and yet a part of either one.

Because their immediate threat is about to approach.

And they cannot afford to lose.

Because today is judgment day.

And it was their choice.

For another day.

Another night.

Always together.

And never apart again.

* * *

 

“I must be mad,” Tyrion mutters to himself as he keeps stalking after the Sparrows he was able to spot again after Brienne turned into the mirror image of her ancestor before proceeding to the Great Sept of Baelor.

After all, he, too, had one more gift to give, a small retribution compared to what was done to her for the sake of his loosened up tongue. After all, Brienne’s rusty, cheap armor never matched her style or prowess in fight. While he would have liked to have a new one tailored for her, he did not have the time or coin as a septon to do so, which is why he re-gifted yet another pricey item given into his care, Jaime’s old Kingsguard armor, the one he wore under Aerys, but was then renewed under Robert and then Cersei. He told his younger brother during a private moment that he meant to keep it to remind himself of how long he wore that formidable armor just standing by while a Mad King reigned and raged, so to never stand by again without taking action, the way an entire nation had done alongside him. And so, it travelled with Tyrion, thus serving as a sad reminder of the man who would not speak to him, until he did again, against all odds. And now it seemed to complete a picture Tyrion didn’t know he had inside his mind until his eyes saw it before him when he helped Brienne fix the armor around her frame. And while it is no perfect fit for her, all could be put on her frame without any last-second adjustments being necessary. However, when Tyrion stepped back and gave her the shield her ancestor used to bear, he saw Ser Duncan the Tall just the way he remembered him from his children books he was so fond of. A kind of sublimity never reliant on outer beauty or a gallant walk, but a kind of strength that radiated from the sheen of the armor, an echo of the codices of the former days long since faded and almost forgotten.

It was the one way of going about it, to let her go and fight, even though he tried to make her stay and read the message Jaime gave him with a heavy heart. And while he did not consult Jaime on the matter, Tyrion is sure that he would have approved of giving the armor to Brienne. After all, Tyrion can still vividly recall his brother pondering on what metals to choose for a new armor he wanted to have the smiths make for Brienne. Blue steel was what he favored most. Back in those days, he was planning for namesdays instead of judgment days. He did so with a smile on his face and with the kind of hope that was doused ever since Brienne was dragged out of his chamber the one day that all hell broke loose.

However, Brienne left, went out to act instead of sit down and read, wait and hope for the best. And that left Tyrion with no choice but going outside, too. Because he is done waiting. And while his brother certainly would want him to stay where he is and only ever take flight if the situation was hopeless, Tyrion dares to think that even a dwarf can help turn fortune in favor of those he loves most. Because he is clever, not nearly as clever as he liked to pride himself with, but he is smart enough to see a coup d’état in the making when he sees it.

_And who said that turning the weapons of your enemies against themselves is a kind of crime? You merely use what is already there._

To Tyrion’s great luck, the Sparrows don’t seem to be from King’s Landing originally. He knows that the High Septon had them gathered at the capitol more and more, recruited them to join him and his self-proclaimed mission to re-establish the Faith as the one true power in the realm, but that also means that people walk down its streets who tend to get lost.

By contrast, Tyrion does not get lost, not even when dead drunk. He spent too much time staggering down the streets so that he knows them with his eyes closed. Though the dwarf will have to admit that he never felt as nervous and agitated as he has to hide behind corners and buildings, so not to be seen by the Sparrows still trying to finally make it to the major square in Flea Bottom to where they were supposed to go, or so Tyrion gathered by now.

After all, Tyrion would take honest delight in seeing his sister be brought to justice, but a revolution favoring the High Sparrow may actually play to their great disadvantage in the long run. If he is the one to seize power in the capitol, it is only a matter of time until he will find his brother and Brienne guilty of some crime he sees they committed against the Crown. And while he would likely not use witchcraft, for that the septon seems far too scared of the dark arts, there are other means all know the High Sparrow has no issue using to see people break under the pressure of the sin he means to assign to each and everyone in this city. Compared to what he can do behind closed doors, even so much as a walk of shame can be a tiny nuisance.

Tyrion keeps stealing after them until he can see them take out the scroll as they approach a massive amount of people the Queen supposedly didn’t want to see near the Sept because she would not want the filth that likes to throw shit at her carriage whenever she dares to show herself in the city anywhere near the celebration.

Though that may just be to your disadvantage, bitter, bitter sister. After all, it sometimes takes one little thing for a big avalanche to be set into motion.

Tyrion bites his lower lip as he looks down to see a bunch of stones about the size of his palm lying there.

“Truly, what am I doing?” he mutters to himself as he bends down and picks up two stones. He sucks in a deep breath, before going on to whisper, “Mother, Father, Crone, Stranger, Maiden, Warrior, Smith, Red God, Drowned God, Old Gods, God of Wine and Tits, whoever is daring to listen to a wicked little dwarf the likes of me! Give me a good aim this one time to help my loved ones. I shall drink _only little_ from this day forth, I promise!”

And that is when he sends the stones flying, even though he knows to have a terrible, terrible aim. One time, he knocked his brother out with a stone by accident, and to this day Jaime has a small scar on the back of his head where Tyrion got him, a story he was never supposed to share with anyone because it hurt the older brother’s pride to have lain in the grass unconscious, not having anticipated the accidental attack.

“Ugh!”

“What was… ow!”

Tyrion can do nothing much but stare for a moment as the men sink to the ground, unmoving. He then rushes ahead to see that they are still alive, but knocked out for good, so he is quick to take the slip of parchment from the Sparrow who just unrolled it before quickly making it down the next alley, to straightly head to the major square instead of following around those without direction. His eyes skim the page quickly, and while he is surprised at the strategy, it seems to make sense for the High Sparrow, who wants to have you believe that nothing but the mission counts, that nothing but the word matters, and that if he makes his accusations towards Cersei known, the city will follow the call, no matter who says it. His Sparrows are messengers of a higher order inside that man’s mind.

Though Tyrion wants to think that maybe it is time to let another message ring for an even higher order than the one the High Septon has in mind.

After all, he is a robe wearing septon with a parchment in hand, so who is to say that he is not one of those messengers, just about to step forward to a crowd eager to listen to what the Sparrows’ song is.

Maybe it is madness indeed, but Tyrion can’t find it in himself to care. Because he is moving, moving forward, and even if all is meant to fail, the truth will be heard, not just within the Great Sept of Baelor, but also in Flea Bottom.

And what is heard in Flea Bottom will inevitably infect the rest of the city. He has seen that before, so Tyrion has no doubt anymore that even if all goes awry, this is the right thing to do.

This is the one madness he will accept.

And so he keeps on moving.

Moving forward.

Under a sun hiding behind the moon.

Under a moon holding on to the sun. 

* * *

 

Queen Cersei is long since on the edge of the seat, though she does not dare to lift her gaze to look upon the fighter in golden armor. She knows who that person is, and she cannot, she must not look her in the eye. Qyburn told her over and over. The spell said that she would never have to look upon them together as man and woman ever again. Yet, here they are, as man and woman, fighting her new Lord Commander. That simply cannot be. It must not be. She must not see.

_Until there comes another, younger and more beautiful._

_To cast you down and take all that you hold dear._

_All that you hold dear._

_All of it._

_The man who was supposed to love no one other than you._

_The Iron Throne that should be yours and yours alone._

_The love of the people who should fear you and you alone._

_The Crown that should sit upon no one’s head but your own._

_Everything! Everything! Everything!_

_No! No! No!_

She will not lose, Ser Gregor will not lose, Cersei knows it. She has seen him fight. Qyburn assured her that no man can beat him. He is her new strong arm, the one that Jaime didn’t want to become, didn’t dare to become, instead choosing that shambling beast of a woman over her, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Cersei wed no prince, she wedded the King and became Queen. All was as the wretched old woman told her in that tent, but she will not fall victim to the hag’s words when it comes to her own reign. If she is not supposed to be Queen anymore, then she will take with her the one who came to cast her down.

She will defy the Gods.

She will defy destiny.

She will climb atop the ashes of this city if need be, just to be sure that she, Cersei of House Lannister, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, has beaten the prophecy, has beaten destiny, even if that came with sacrifice, even if that came with having to side with the lesser, having to climb under the furs and pretend to love someone she hated, someone who now even dared to betray her a second time by speaking against her.

No one betrays a Queen, though.

No one.

Not without paying the price for it.

 _And Gregor will collect the debt_ , she thinks, letting her fingers curl and uncurl to ease her heated mind. _A Lannister always pays his debts. And I am a lioness. I will make them all pay for their lack of loyalty, their lack of service towards their one true Queen. And my Ser Gregor will do the deed for me. He will do what my brother refused to do. He is a part of me, he is the strength I needed to reign. And if it takes a cleansing with wildfire, then so be it. I will watch the city burn from the Red Keep. And then we will see who laughs, Maggy. You just sit back and see what the girl you snickered at can do, because this is no girl anymore, this is a Queen. The Queen. Till her last day._

All Cersei has to do is to keep her gaze lowered at let her Lord Commander handle it. They still have time. She has seen to that. She is ahead of them all. Even two acts of treason against their Queen cannot undo it.

The noise of the big woman letting out a scream fills Cersei with comfort and delight, because that means she is winning and that woman is losing, the way she should have done long, long time ago.

“Brienne!” Jaime shouts when he sees the tall woman roll on the ground after Gregor thrust his shoulder right against her injured own.

“Keep going, Seven Hells!” Brienne retorts through gritted teeth, already on her hands and knees to gather herself. “The moment we rest is the moment we are bound to lose.”

She never anticipated to fight against such a… _beast_. Brienne has no other way of describing that man. There is death in his eyes where life should be. There is strength in his body that no human should possess. And there is absolute ruthlessness in every blow that makes her tremble in the depths of her bones. Whatever it is that Qyburn, in all likability, did to make him into this monster, it works well enough to have two able knights on the losing end.

When Brienne learned that Jaime had already gone ahead to the sept without her, there was no holding back for her anymore. She just had to be there, right by his side. There was no moment of hesitation, just a wish to move forward, to him. Though there was a short time that gave the young woman pause, and that was when she approached the Great Sept of Baelor, dressed in the old armor of the Kingsguard and with her ancestor’s shield on her arm, and the people just stood there, motionless.

It was as though they were seeing a ghost.

“Ser Duncan,” Brienne could hear women, men, and children mutter as she continued up the stairs, and even the men of the Queensguard seemed far too mesmerized by what they also seemed to see as a ghost to so much as move to stop her.

Brienne always found it a folly on Cersei’s and Tyrion’s behalf to even, for only just a second, believe that her ancestry carried strength to shake so much as a tavern’s truss. Yet, there she was, outside the Great Sept of Baelor, and an entire city seemed to make space for her because they thought they were seeing the ghost of Ser Duncan the Tall proceed up the stairs, to finally bring justice back to them after it was taken away from them for so very long. So perhaps they were not entirely wrong in their assessment, or in Cersei’s context, fear that the echo of her ancestral name may carry further than her own ever would.

However, it makes no difference now. None of those names will matter in the end, ghosts or not, real or not. It is the living that count, and Brienne prays to the Seven she can see around her, cast into marble statues, that Jaime and she will be amongst those once the fight is over, and won’t just fade into the echo of the past.

_But if it is not, then at the very least, we will go in the knowledge that the echoes of our names will continue to ring through the streets, through every market square, so that even the Two Pillars can no longer make us stay silent. There will be no leather in my mouth ever again._

Brienne lets out a grunt as she gets back to her feet, watching Jaime dance with the sword just as elegantly as she remembered him to. And if not for the gravity of the situation, she would thank the Seven for letting her see that one more time, for allowing her one last time to fight alongside him. That is more than Brienne dared to hope for some time back.

This is more than Brienne ever dared to see past the day she woke up, knowing that she would turn into a bird by day again.

And it seems that her appetite is not yet assuaged.

Because a young girl reminded her of what she wanted and that she should take it while she still could, or die in the attempt.

_This is not the end, not yet._

Brienne tightens her grip around Oathkeeper before charging into battle again, to help the man she can’t help but love but never found the strength to tell, but at the same time the same she knows she would die for any other day, the same way he would do it for her.

Arya, meanwhile, made her round again to slip away from the Sparrows before they could catch her, though in a crowd as upset as this one, a plain girl is very easy to miss, which keeps playing to her advantage at last, when it used to be something she loathed when she was called Mouse and no one bothered to ask for her real name. Nevertheless, her heart is heavy with fear and sorrow as she continues to catch glimpses of Brienne and Jaime fighting that monster of a man Cersei brought for her own protection, because, frankly, it is not looking good for either one.

While the young girl has no doubt in either Jaime’s or Brienne’s skills, she knows how much they had to take recently. Arya knows that there are still wounds on them that have not yet healed, that they are exhausted and in pain. And she knows that there is so much more on the line than some petty fight over whose right it is to sit this wretched chair in the great hall of the Red Keep. It’s simply not fair, though that again is hardly any news, Arya is aware. Those fights were never decided by fairness, but by who played whom and in what fashion. However, Jaime and Brienne will put an end to that, at the tips of their swords.

_And what am I supposed to do now? Stand by? Make a run for it while they fight for their lives, their honor, each other?_

Jaime and Brienne would likely tell her to use the moment of distraction to go back into the sewers and make for her escape, go to Winterfell, go back to her family, live the life they were not granted. And if she were as clever as Tyrion, she would probably do that, but Arya is not Tyrion, and while she learned to listen to Jaime and Brienne, the young girl from the North has to listen to what her heart commands foremost. And her heart tells her that if the people she came to care about so much are in dire danger, she cannot just stand by, she has to move, has to do something, however small, however unimportant it may seem, but she will fight, for them, for their truth, for their lives, their love.

Thus, Arya continues to make her way to the front, her fingers curled tightly around Needle. While her blade stands no chance against that man, it may well suffice to hold to a delicate throat of a Queen who talked sweet even though she was out for the bitterness all along or that of a man far too focused on letting his booming voice ring of the injustice of others rather than his own.

_This will not be the end._

Jaime grinds his teeth as he keeps circling the gigantic man, moving in opposite direction to Brienne so that Gregor can only strike at one at a time. Though he will have to admit, Jaime never thought it would come to this to make their truth known. Not in his wildest dreams did he believe to fight a monster of a man, and yet, be by Brienne’s side. So if it is their last time, it is, at the very least, a glorious ending for two fools who were too focused on being knights than living their lives at times.

A Trial by Combat seems like the one fair judgment the likes of them can expect, though Jaime has no illusion about it that Cersei will just stop, even if they are to win against this beast of a man.

“Left!” he can hear Brienne shout as Gregor alternated his grip to come at him from the other side with his fist instead of the blade. Jaime manages to sidestep a bit, but before he knows it, he is in the air again, solidly colliding against the stairs to knock the air out of him once more.

“Always the same,” he grunts, his entire body protesting. “This is tiring. Couldn’t you at least show some variation? Seven Hells, I hoped for a good fight here, and all you give me is such a shameful performance!”

For a moment, he can hear the murmurs of the crowd again, which seems to be in their favor for the time being, though they may be simply chasing the sensation that lies in two mystery knights, two thieves, battling the Crown amidst a revolution on the rise. As Tyrion said, that is the kind of stuff tall tales are made out of.

However, the voices soon die out when all see to take a collective step back when Ser Gregor comes at him, sword raised, features even grimmer than before. Jaime struggles to tighten his grip on the blade, and while its light weight made him hold on to it far better than he could with Oathkeeper, he can feel the familiar pain shoot through his limb. He won’t be able to swing that blade of Valyrian steel for much longer, Jaime knows.

_And yet, it must not be the end, not just yet._

Jaime already wants to kick out to keep the man away from him, but that is when he sees a golden object flying through the air, solidly colliding with the side of the giant’s helmet to turn it around so he cannot see for a moment. Jaime quickly rolls away while Gregor struggles to put the bent metal back in place, unable to hide a smile when he sees Brienne’s face now without her helmet, which she used as a projectile against the monstrous man.

“Your aim is as good as I remember it to be,” Jaime says with a grin, swallowing back down some blood forming on his lips.

“Sadly, the fight will not be determined by who has the best aim,” Brienne argues, her eyes fixed on the gigantic man whose agitation seems to increase tenfold with every second it takes him to move the bent helmet back in place. “And I may just have made it worse.”

“Well, I rather have his temper getting worse than me dead, I will admit,” Jaime comments.

The freakish tall man rips the helmet off in a fury once, thereby revealing blueish, pale, distorted skin underneath that has everyone hold their breaths for a moment, before he puts it back on loosely, his lips a furious snarl. Everyone stares when the man suddenly starts to move forward much faster than before, a pure rage unleashed now, ready to strike down whatever comes into its path.

Brienne watches in a mixture of horror and yet a pang of pleasure, because this is a beast, a creation not from this world. That is something to be afraid of, and it is the doing of the Queen who likes to hide behind her crown, her mighty chair, her flowing dresses and good looks. This is her own monster made manifest, and if Brienne didn’t know any better, she would tend to think that this creature is what she holds most dear now.

The tall woman decides to charge ahead, reckoning that intercepting Gregor’s blow before he can swing the blade may work better in her favor than waiting for him to rain down on her without abandon. Brienne rushes ahead, then lets herself fall on one knee to use the marble floor to slide closer until Oathkeeper is within reach of the man’s leg. She cuts down with both hands as hard as she can, the blood spraying on the man’s white cloak and spilling on the ground immediately.

The young woman staggers back to her feet, the weight of the armor still unfamiliar to her. Brienne already means to charge back in, now that the man has his back to her, reckoning that from this angle, she may have a chance to attack his sword arm, since the Queensguard armor, like her own, is not entirely covered in metal to allow for freer movement. Thus, Brienne rushes ahead a second time, shield raised, sword ready to strike down a second time, but before she can break off the assault, Ser Gregor turns and runs the pommel against her shield to send her flying backwards. For a moment, Brienne sees the world fading in and out as the blood keeps pulsating through her veins, but she cannot catch her breath because the giant wants revenge for his helmet, it seems, now focusing his attention on her.

Brienne raises her shield with shaking arms when Gregor’s blade comes raining down on her, or rather comes upon her like an avalanche, but then he stops for a split second to see a faint trail of blood seeping through the tunic by her still healing shoulder, the stitches seemingly no longer holding against the assault.

Like a bloodhound that finally got a trail, he thus beats down on her injured shoulder before she can move the shield in place. Brienne cannot help but scream out in pain as her wound reopens and bones sigh and wail under every blow.

Brienne can only ever blink when she sees a flash of black appear behind Ser Gregor, which reveals itself to be Jaime who starts to strike against the man’s back and arms to get Gregor’s attention away from her.

“Hey! I said _we two_ are dancing!” Jaime snarls when Gregor turns back around to him to stop the assault. “You can’t just forget all about me!”

While the two commence, Brienne struggles back to her feet, her shoulder pounding unbearably much now, assuring her that some bones are at the very least cracked already. Mesmerized for a moment, she watches the small droplets of red blood splattering on the marble floor, to mix with the smear of what she assumes to be Jaime’s blood from where he got the cut on the leg.

“End her! End her first!” she can hear Cersei shout out all of a sudden. “End her!”

Her eyes gleam with spite and anger, a kind of fury that has even Arya catch her breath. She knew that it must be a pure kind of rage to make a woman move as far as she did to see two people cast apart, but to see her now like this assures Arya only ever the more that this woman is indeed the new Mad Queen. The girl briefly lets her gaze wander over to the High Sparrow, still asking herself what his game may now be, because he has no part in Ser Gregor’s creation or use. He watches on as Jaime and Brienne keep fighting against this monstrous man, his fingers curled around his roughspun tunic, right over his heart.

And if Arya is not mistaken, there is nothing but fear in his eyes now.

Gregor turns away from Jaime upon hearing Cersei’s call, much to the man’s shock. He had hoped that he could distract the man a while longer to give Brienne some more time to recover, but they don’t seem to have much luck today anyway. Thus, Brienne has no other choice but to abandon the shield to hold on to the blade with both hands as her right is losing its grip with every second passing. This time, Brienne has no way to attack, she has to dodge, has to hold on, endure, reminding herself with every blow that she must not lose Oathkeeper. If she loses the sword, she will be lost, Brienne knows that.

This sword means her life.

Jaime tries to get the monstrous man’s attention back on himself, but even when he solidly cuts the man’s side, Ser Gregor won’t so much as flinch, only to whirl around once and knock Jaime away to the side. 

“Jaime!” the young woman shrieks when she sees the former Lord Commander crash to the ground, leaving a smear of blood where his leg slides over the marble floor.

Gregor then turns his attention back to Brienne, pushes her back down by running his meaty leg into her injured shoulder. Brienne screeches while struggling to get her grip back on the sword to do something, anything.

“End her! End her already! Do it! Do it now!”

 _No,_ Brienne thinks to herself. _This is not the end. It cannot be. It must not. You do not get to determine my end. You did not before, you will not now. It is my choice. And mine alone._

The gigantic man takes a hold of his broad sword with both hands and starts to achingly slowly press it down with all of his weight on her bleeding shoulder, seemingly relishing the pain it gives Brienne. The pressure becomes more and more unbearable as the man keeps pressing the metal through that of her armor until the tip pierces through at last, almost like a strange kind of relief when it draws blood.

White light flashes before Brienne’s eyes as air becomes a rare good.

He draws his sword back then, and Brienne is not mistaken, he is smirking at her pain, at her suffering. Ser Gregor truly seems to be the twin she wanted to find in Jaime, but did not, reflecting all that is ugly on her inside, all that is cruel and terrorizing on the inside, for all to see, for all to witness, what she could keep hidden by having others do the deed for her, yet here Cersei is, screaming for a woman to end, here she is, standing with her ugly, terrible mirror image.

_And no one can look away anymore._

Gregor then lifts his sword again, this time, of that Brienne is certain, to carry out the deed his Queen is demanding of him. The hint of a smile flashes across her bloodied lips, because it is right at that moment that Brienne knows they can no longer lose.

Because the people are gasping, the people are muttering, she cannot hear them cheer for Gregor, for the Queen or even the High Sparrow, she can hear their doubt for the Two Pillars, not just the Queen, but also the man they meant to cheer for in her stead, she can hear them crumble and collapse under the weight of their own pride and sin.

_And that means we already won._

“You made a grave mistake. Do you know which one?” Brienne gasps, looking at the monstrous man looming over her with hooded eyes, as he is ready to strike down one last time. For a fraction of a moment, the tall man pauses, looking her almost as if he were genuinely curious, though Brienne reckons she only ever got him by surprise.

“You thought… that taking my sword arm would mean my defeat, but a knight should know… how to use the other, so he may never lose his sword. You underestimated us… you saw one where there is two,” the young woman tells him, blackness appearing before her eyes as she repeats the move she showed Arya in the barn, using her left hand into which she gave Oathkeeper while Gregor kept assaulting her injured right to cut up and thus make the man’s helmet fly high into the air, like a bird freed from its cage.

“High!” Brienne then screams with all air she has left inside her failing body, a call back to the former days of fencing with Jaime in the training yard, when they fought back to back against some knights Jaime was sure he could trust. It was their attack, the one they shared. Because this is the echo of her own past, not that of Jaime alone in the Kingsguard under Aerys, not from Dunk, only hers, of the joy she felt fighting and laughing with one man as one.

_I prepared and he ended it. We made the choice, together. And now we will again, one more time, one last time. For all to see. For no one to deny ever again._

“Low!” Jaime shouts, both his hands tight around his sword, having used the momentum to jump up and thus cut through the now exposed neck of the monstrous man. And because it is Valyrian steel, the blade won’t stop at the skin, it travels further and further, until a head rolls off to the side, and a gigantic snake loses its head, thrashing a few more times before it crashes to the ground.

“Nooooooooooo!” the Queen shrieks as she sees her soldier fall, sees falter what she thought only he could carry in his strong arms, her future, meant to last a thousand years.

Silence spreads across the Great Sept of Baelor, creeps its way up the walls, then back down again to the center, where two knights and a monstrous knight are in the eyes of the Seven.

For a moment, the world seems to pause, only the ragged breaths of Jaime carrying over the marble floor. There lies absolution in this silence, ringing louder than any bell, than any sentence spoken by men of faith or law ever could.

Jaime is the first to break out of the silence’s spell and starts to rush forward, to her, to the woman he couldn’t bear to see hurt, only to have that now become reality. Jaime uses his remaining strengths to tear the gigantic body off of the woman he came to defend and protect, only to see her go down before him, and this time without the faintest comfort lying in being told rather than seeing it happen. Because if you are being told that someone fell, there is the hint of a chance that she may be still out there, now in the shape of a bird or not.

At last he can see her blonde hair underneath and the monster rolls off of her like a wet sack of flour. Jaime falls to his knees and gathers Brienne’s head in his lap, finding her eyes closed, her wound bleeding steadily if silently. With a hiss, he tears the bent shoulder piece away from her body, searching for movement, but finding none.

Tears swim before Jaime’s eyes at the sight. Because that is what he saw in too many nightmares to the count. This, right there, gathered in his arms, is what Jaime was always most afraid of. Jaime was ready to die for this, for them, their truth, but he won’t ever be ready to have her die for this.

He taps his bloodied fingers against her pale, freckled cheek. “No, no, no, no. Brienne? Wake up already. Wake up! We won! Do you hear me? You won! It’s over now. We have a life to live now. Brienne? Don’t you dare go now that we won. Don’t you dare yield just yet. Wake up. I have to tell you something. I still have to tell you something, so please wake up so I can say it. Please. Please. _Please_.”

Jaime can’t have her die in his arms, not now, not ever.

This was and will always be his greatest fear. It was what made him claw his nails out in the tower. It was what tore him apart, unable to move, unable to act, but they did act, the people heard the truth, and yet, it is all supposed to be for nothing? Yet, this is supposed to be the end?

_Where is the justice in all of this? We won and yet we lose? What of your gentleness, Mother? What of your justice, Father? Where are you now? Where are you?_

Jaime is pulled out of his thoughts when he feels something warm against the side of his face, clumsily wiping a tear away. He looks down to lock eyes with endless blue.

“No need for tears just yet,” Brienne whispers, a tired smile tugging at her lips. “I told you I would stay… and I don’t break my promises. Ever.”

Jaime laughs through the tears, pulling her a little closer to himself. “Damn you for scaring me so, wench.”

“You are too… easily frightened. Remember? I always… knock them into the dust,” Brienne tells him. Jaime cups her hand with his own to let it rest against his cheek a moment longer, because he can feel her, touch her, and she is breathing, they are breathing, they are alive.

_This was not the end._

“You do,” he agrees. “You didn’t read my note, did you?”

“No,” Brienne says faintly. “I wanted to have something for the future past judgment. What did it say?”

She wanted to have a future beyond that day, one where the ink was already dried so no one could undo it, whether she read it or not. And so, Brienne took it from Tyrion when she got ready, but then took the scroll to stuff it away. She wanted to save it for later, she wanted to hope. And looking at him now, she was right in keeping it.

Because there is hope now, shining down on her like the sun, just that this time, she can touch it, and there is no wolf to howl to take him away from her.

“My greatest secret, the one I kept from you all this time,” Jaime replies, his voice shaking.

She blinks at him. “… What?”

“Ask me for it. And I will answer.”

“What is your secret?” she whispers breathlessly.

Jaime then leans down to press a tender kiss to her lips, and for a moment Brienne thinks she is dying all over, but she is not. She is alive. She is alive and can feel that kiss that is no dream, no fantasy, flitting away under the swing of a bird’s wing. This is not the end, this is the beginning, however short-lived, however frail, like a bird’s egg. Yet, it is growing, is about to hatch, break out of its shell to see the light of day.

This is real.

And Brienne just yields to that moment, to that feeling.

Meanwhile, the Queen, having seen her perfect soldier fail, knows that it is time to retreat. Cersei will have to hurry now, but in the moment of distraction, she may well escape. She just has to get out of there, she just has to return to her Iron Throne. In the Red Keep, she will always be safe. Let them have their small victory, only for the green flames to consume them all. It doesn’t matter. Ser Gregor was not the perfect knight after all. But there can awlays be another. There will be another. Qyburn will see to that. She will see to that.

Cersei gets up from her chair, her gaze lowered all the while, but when she is about to move away, she can feel cold metal press against her throat. The Queen turns her gaze to see a dark-haired boy or girl, she is not sure, holding her back with the tip of a sword.

“You stay right where you are,” Arya warns her, before looking at the High Sparrow. “And so will you. I am quick on my feet, I can take you down in a heartbeat if I must. And trust me, I will.”

The High Sparrow looks at her for a long moment. His visions, they have been wrong. There was darkness from the sky, and the beast of man stepped through it, not as a wolf, but man, and he defeated the beast the Queen brought forth. There was no wave that he cast from the oceans. The wave came through the fire, gilded in the glory of the former days, in the shape of a woman he thought was dead, but that the Seven have chosen not to take to them. And he did not see it until it was too late, until his hands were soaked in the blood of others, of the woman he thought was dead but is alive, of the woman he thought was a witch, only to stand to the one who cast the spell all this time. Because he believed he was t messenger, but what if he misread it all along? What if t Gods have chosen them?

_What if the beast of man was right all along? What if it was me all this time?_

At the sound of the girl’s voice, Cersei’s eyes widen. She heard that before. “You are…”

“Arya Stark of Winterfell. And those are my friends. You will look upon them now, to undo the curse,” Arya tells her, fastening her grip on Needle. “So stay, unless you want to be taken apart, piece by piece, like your precious, now dead Lord Commander.”

It ends today, Arya is certain of it now. This tyranny will end, because two people dared to speak the truth, dared to fight for it with their own blood, their own lives at stake. Because that is the kind of sacrifice no Queen or King is willing to make, but it is the kind of sacrifice knights are willing to bring, for the sake of the people, for the sake of protection.

_This is their end, and the beginning of others’._

Arya grimaces when she sees Cersei only ever giving her a misgiving kind of smile. “You think you won, little girl? Kill me and the curse will never be broken. I am Queen. And I will go now. And there is nothing you can do about it.”

Because she can still decide over the destiny of everyone else.

Because she is Queen and no one else.

Thus, even death is up to her decide.

“You will watch. You will see,” Arya argues, pressing Needle a bit harder against Cersei’s neck to draw a fine line of blood, but the Queen seems unfazed.

“You won’t make me, because I am Queen.”

_And I will be. Forever. Always._

_I have to be._

_I have to defy destiny._

_Till last._

_I will not be cast down._

_Not now._

_Not ever._

“Cersei!” Jaime calls out. The Queen turns her head his direction, but still keeps her gaze lowered, so not to see the face of the woman she knows she must not look upon with him together, or else all is meant to falter.

And it cannot.

It must not.

_Because I am Queen. Queen. Queen!_

“Look at me! Look at us!” Jaime screams at the top of his voice. “It’s over! It’s done! Put an end to it already! Look at us! See us!”

He demands it not just for the curse to be broken, but for the many times the woman he dared to think would not mean him such harm only ever saw herself, not him, his needs, his wishes, his best. She only ever saw herself in him, saw her own reflection, the path she wanted to walk on, and expected him to pave it for her.

He demands it for Brienne, for how Cersei made an entire nation look away from her, let her fade into nothingness, for no more than some secret spilled over a cup of wine, for the sake of her own ambitions.

He demands it because it is overdue.

He demands it because Cersei cannot ignore it anymore.

He is not hers.

He is his own.

He made his choice.

And it was for the woman whom he currently helps stand.

The woman who made him stand after he had fallen into the abyss for so very long.

“It’s all too late anyway,” Cersei says with a wicked grin tugging at her lips. “I, too, will keep my promise.”

She turns her head slightly over to the High Sparrow, who seems paralyzed after what he just saw and heard, or maybe he still tends to think similar to the Queen and live under the false pretense that he can win even without the snake’s head.

But he is not Queen, not King.

Cersei is. And she knows that she can win even if she loses.

That is her power.

_I will be Queen, and the one younger and more beautiful, Brienne the Beauty, will go down with me if need be, but she will not have my throne. I will die Queen, and she will die a shambling beast in armor._

_No one but I will cast myself down._

_I win._

_I win._

_I win._

_Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me._

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Arya demands to know, tightening her grip on Needle another time so that the woman has to flinch away from the bite of the blade.

“I told the High Sparrow that I would leave the Great Sept of Baelor as Queen, no matter what happens. Even _that_ won’t stop it from taking place. Even looking at you,” Cersei says, lifting her gaze to see Jaime and Brienne standing there, her brother supporting the big woman as she struggles to keep upright, “does nothing to my power. It does absolutely nothing. It changes nothing. I will win. I already have. No one is leaving me without my permit. No one leaves me! I made sure of it. In the crypts beneath the city.”

Jaime’s eyes widen at that.

 _Widlfire_. She found the wildfire. But how? He made certain that no one would. Jaime spent night after night to make sure it was hidden away. He closed down passages with hammer and wooden beams. He made sure of it.

_That cannot be. That must not be. No._

“I will be the last Queen you will get to see. And so, I win,” Cersei says with a smile, relief washing over her face. “And you lose.”

But then her gaze falls to the ground, to see a bundle of cut-off fuses now at her feet. Cersei looks at the rough threads for a long moment, not quite comprehending until she does.

“Do you mean these?” Arya says, pointing at the fuses. “A friend of mine warned me not to play with fire, so I rather put them out when I went through the sewers. I wouldn’t want anything to catch flame, after all.”

She gives Jaime a mild kind of smile, all the while glad that she went through the vaults and crypts without light, or else she never would have caught the sight of the fuses and candles that were, as she just pieces together, meant to explode at a certain point of time to take down the Queen’s enemies.

And while there will be no next time, the Queen better should have made sure that no one could get in there to cut some loose threads.

Cersei’s mouth falls open whereas Jaime lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Because he already saw green flames again, just that this time it would have been his sister’s voice shouting “burn them all” through the fire over and over again.

The Queen’s entire frame starts to shake as her eyes remain fixed on the fuses. Ser Gregor is dead. Qyburn won’t make it down to the crypts before the people can slip out, before her brother and that wretched woman can make their escape. Her infallible plan… it failed.

_Aye. Queen you shall be... until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear._

_Until there comes another, younger and more beautiful._

_To cast you down._

_Take all that you hold dear._

_Younger and more beautiful._

_To cast you down._

_Take all that you hold dear._

_All that you hold dear._

_All of it._

“No, no, no, nooooooooo!” Cersei shrieks, looking at the crowd with wide eyes. “Someone, take her! Take them! Kill them! Your Queen demands it! Your Queen commands it! Kill them! Kill them all!”

But when she looks around, there is no movement.

Because no one loves her enough to fight for her.

No one loves her enough to come to her support.

“You will all suffer my rage for this! Every single one of you!” Cersei yells, her entire body trembling when she focuses at single faces within the grey mass. “You will pay for this! You all will! You and you and you and you!”

But then her eyes fall back on Jaime and Brienne.

_They are at fault, for all of this. It is their fault. It was them, all along. Always only them!_

“You stay right where you are,” Arya warns the Queen, who stands there, motionless, like a snake frozen in fear at the sight of an even greater beast.

“Help me, please,” Brienne mutters to Jaime, who gives a nod to carry most of her weight to make it over to where the Queen is standing and quivering, like a snake about to have its head cut off.

However, before they proceed to her, the two turn to the High Sparrow standing there, still perplex, still in shock. Because for a moment he thought he saw the Maiden and the Warrior, the Mother and the Father, the Smith and the Stranger and the Crone, united in them, as though the Gods had chosen them over him, over their message. And he cannot grasp it, cannot comprehend it. It is all too much. The High Sparrow finds himself crushed under a wave of his own making, swimming, drowning, pulled to the bottom of the sea.

What he saw in his visions, not those induced by the Queen but his very own, he saw a wave washing over the city, he saw King’s Landing being cleansed of sin. He heard the bells ring from the Great Sept of Baelor to announce it being the will of the Seven. The Gods asked him to bring the Faith to rise, he heard them, right in his heart. And yet, the High Sparrow was sure that this was their message to him, for him to carry to the people. However, here now stand those he was willing to sacrifice to the Gods to see that being achieved. And they came back and won in the eyes of the Seven.

_Was that your message all along, Mother, Father, Crone, Warrior, Smith, Maiden, Stranger? Did I not hear your words? Did I fail to listen to you? Is that what you wanted all along? Is that your will? And what is thus of mine?_

“I told you I would come back for you,” Jaime says to the High Sparrow, his face unmoving. “A Lannister always pays his debts.”

The High Septon can feel his old scar burning hot again as the man’s eyes keep fixing on him, keep drawing him in, the echoes of the past right back in his ears:

_“Or are you just scared that, deep down, you are a monster perhaps even worse than you make her and me out to be? Aren’t you just scared that you are the wolf in a lamb’s skin?”_

_“Aren’t you just scared that you are a beast like me? A monster?”_

Because he stood with a monster, he sided with one, and doesn’t that make him no different from the man now lying beheaded on the sept’s ground? The High Sparrow thought he would be weightless, like Lancel was, after he made his confessions. He thought that once all was said and done, once the Faith was firmly established as the one true Pillar, the justice of the Seven would finally ring.

But is this the justice of the Gods, if they have chosen those two as their victors?

And who is he to intervene, then?

“You let all of those atrocities happen, you let all those people like Brienne be made into monsters against the Faith, when all they did was live their lives. But _you_ are the beast of man, hungry for power, for no other purpose than power itself,” Jaime tells him. “There is no holy spirit in seeking power. There is just power there, and for that you were hungry, for that you were thirsty. Maybe not for yourself, but for your cause, and thus, in your name. Brienne was no witch, she never was, or else she would have used her powers right now, don’t you think? And by contrast, you would have to ask yourself how comes a walking corpse is commanded by the woman you sided with against this supposed witch.”

The High Sparrow only ever bows his head, and Jaime were to find it in himself to see one good thing in that man, then it is that he has the decency to look like he is sorry, but that won’t be enough. And yet, that is not their judgment to make.

Because even though they won, they only won for themselves and the sake of truth. What the people make of the High Sparrow and the Queen past this day remains up to the people whose love Jaime is by no means sure about.

They are scared, they are confused, after they heard so much, have seen so much.

Only the Gods will know what will be past this day, but that makes it ever the more important to use that opportunity, to rid themselves of the hatred, so they are both as free as a bird, however long it may last.

They then turn their attention back to the Queen. Brienne removes her arm from Jaime, and while she still stand shakily, she stands before the Queen nonetheless, stands taller, stands stronger, stands undefeated.

“I see you, Your Grace. And all I see is… a beast,” Brienne says. “A beast that got caught up in the shackles of its own creation.”

With a trembling hand, she reaches up her left arm’s sleeve to take out the leather bindings with which Cersei held her down as both woman and hawk, to make her silent, to make sure she could not cry out, could not warn the man she loves.

“You no longer hold any power over me. And you won’t ever again,” she tells her.

Brienne drops the leather to Cersei’s feet, feeling much lighter now.

Something flickers up in Cersei’s gaze at that. “Then kill me.”

_Then I will die Queen._

_I will be Queen._

_Queen._

_Queen._

_Queen._

“You want me to slay you?” Brienne asks, blinking, since she did not see that coming from a Queen so eager to hold on to her power, to her throne.

Cersei smirks at her. “It’s what you want, isn’t it? Isn’t that for what you came?”

“We wanted to, for a while. A part of me still wants it, I will admit it,” Brienne answers with a shaky voice, but then looks at Jaime. “But we won’t drench ourselves in the blood of our enemies like you did. We won’t make your mistakes. I will not give you a clean death. Because you do not deserve it. You don’t deserve the honor of a quick death at his hands or at mine. I won’t give you what you want, ever again. And if it is death you are seeking, then that is the last thing I will give to you. It’s not up to us to judge you. The Gods have long since decided over you and your destiny. You are bound to watch, bound to see that love wins over hatred, always. It’s over, Cersei. You lost. This is your end, and you do not get to choose it.”

“You can’t keep me here,” Cersei warns her. “You can’t contain me.”

_No one can._

“And _we_ won’t,” Brienne answers, already turning away, to look back at the crowd. “But I think _they_ might. And this time, you have no one to protect you, no shield, no sword, no love.”

“You stay!” Cersei calls after her. “Stay and kill me! Don’t be so craven, or else I will come after you! I will find a way! Just like I did last time! Do you hear me?!”

But Brienne and Jaime just keep walking. He slings his arm back around her to help Brienne down the stairs, leaning in close, “Would you run away with me if I asked right now?”

She blinks at him. “What?”

Jaime chews on his lower lip, his eyebrows furrowed. “You and I both know that the city will be marching either for the High Sparrow or at the very least against the Queen, now that they have her at their will, and after the Faith Militant gave their speeches while we were fighting in here. And I would not count on the love of the people for the Kingslayer outside this sept. Or against two people the High Sparrow has rallied against for a long time. Because this snake, we didn’t kill. So… we could make a run for it, right now, and not look back. We could live a life some other place, if you liked. Just us. We could bring Arya to Winterfell and then see about a place for ourselves, far away from all this here. What would you say if I asked?”

Because Arya was right. They have to choose life if they want to live it. Maybe it is the smartest thing to do now, to run away, to follow his own advice and run away, run for love. A hero’s death may be honorable, but Jaime could care less, if there is the prospect of even the shortest life right by her side.

He would gladly spend a hundred years in hiding, so long it was under the same sun and the same moon as the one Brienne lays her big blue eyes upon.

“What I always say: I stay with you,” Brienne answers.

Just like the moon chases the sun.

Always.

“Then we should hurry before the mob arrives,” Jaime mutters. “Arya! Come now!”

“But…,” the young girl mutters, as she hoped that she would get some more time to put the Queen in her rightful place.

“Come _now_!” Jaime urges her. “We are leaving! Remember what I told you, Seven Hells!”

“Just make sure she doesn’t get near fire, people!” Arya shouts to the crowd. “This is your one and only chance to make things right! Don’t spoil it! I mean, she wanted to kill you all, and he knew that and still didn’t say anything… just saying!”

“Arya, come now!” Brienne curses.

“Ugh,” the brunette grunts, rolling her eyes, before she withdraws a still motionless Queen of Nothing and hurries after the two Knights of Everything.

The three proceed towards the open gates, where the fire is still burning, no matter the efforts to put the flames out.

“Do you think we can get into the sewer here?” Jaime asks, already mulling over the potential options going from there. After all, he has a future to bring out of the city now, one that is supposed to reach far beyond this day and age.

“Not with you two injured and in armor… and then there is Honor, after all. But if we make it to the market place, we can easily jump in there and let the horse run out on its own. The water is shallow enough there and the climb is not too steep,” Arya answers quietly.

“Good, then we go there,” Jaime says, whistling once for Honor to follow his lead whereas his mind is already thinking about how to get Brienne ahorse so they can get her over the flames without further injury, all the while hoping that the men of the Queensguard will continue to show some benevolence for their old Lord Commander and the ghost of Ser Duncan the Tall made flesh.

“Stop!” a voice rings out, pulling Jaime out of his thoughts. The three lift their heads in direction of the gate.

“Now don’t tell me there is another contestant,” Jaime huffs. “We’ve had enough of that by now, don’t you think?”

And he has had enough bad surprises for one day, for a life, in fact. However, that is when Jaime sees a small figure far too familiar for him not to recognize.

“ _Tyrion_?! What are _you_ doing here?!” Jaime cries out when he sees his younger brother approach after he poured a good amount of sand over the flames that would not douse, because he always has that sand ready for when he spills over his precious oil lamp that he gave into Arya’s care. Though it seems that he is in need of a new one now.

“I know I am late, but it seems that you fared well without me,” Tyrion comments, a smile flashing over his face when he sees his distraught sister standing at the far end off the Great Sept of Baelor, looking not like victor at last, but standing utterly defeated. Because that was the face he kept envisioning over and over while he spun his plans to first get Jaime and Brienne out of prison, then to get Lancel to confess to achieve it, and then again while going through the old manuscripts in search for clues of how to undo the curse Cersei put on them to cast them apart.

_We won. Perhaps it takes a kind of madness to achieve victory after all._

“You promised me something, remember?” Jaime argues.

“And I can truthfully say that I kept all of my oaths, my dear brother. You said to me that I should take flight if I saw no other chance, if I saw no hope, but I did. I see it even now, and I stand correct. There was enough reason to stay,” Tyrion replies, smirking at his older brother. “More than enough.”

He found hope and he built on that. Tyrion dared to build on his faith rather than his great mind. He dared to be brave, even though Tyrion is no more than a dwarf who likes to drink and whore and read book after book after book. He dared to fight with unfamiliar weapons, dared to challenge destiny, even though his father used to tell him that he was good for nothing.

“The three of you will be the death of me one of these days,” Jaime grunts, rolling his eyes.

“Let’s hope these days come much later,” Tyrion argues.

“But how did you get in here anyway? We ought to get out. After all, there is likely an angry mob now up against us, after Brienne and I went up against the Queensguard and you said that the High Sparrow may have gathered the people against Cersei and us, too, if need be,” Jaime argues.

“Which is why you have to trust me now,” Tyrion tells him.

The older man frowns. “Trust you? With what?”

“To come outside with me right now,” the younger brother says.

“We were rather hoping for a quick escape,” Brienne argues. “To get out of here… and live for a while.”

To read a note and maybe steal another kiss in bright daylight. Because those things are now within her reach, and Brienne tends to think that Jaime is right, it is worth being craven for, it is worth making a run for, if only to spend a bit more time that is just theirs, without curses or queens or sparrows getting into the way.

“There is no need to escape if we do things right, but for that, we have to act right at this moment. For that, you have to trust me,” Tyrion insists. “Blindly.”

“… I trust you,” Jaime mutters, the words coming out with ease, before looking at Brienne, “and you?”

“I will take your word for it, Tyrion. So… guide the way,” the blonde woman says, slowly nodding her head. Whatever mistrust Brienne may have held against him for spilling her secrets, she reckons that if it brought Jaime’s lips on hers, if it brought to the light what she thought died alongside their good times together, it may have been worthwhile to have those secrets uncovered after all.

Tyrion smiles at them, relishing not just the sight of the two side-by-side, but also to know that he has redeemed himself to them, so they may have faith in them as much as he dares to have faith in himself again.

And so, the four proceed outside, the light of day having returned after the moon moved away from the sun, but neither Jaime nor Brienne feel the animal’s call anymore, no wolf wants to howl, no hawk means to climb into the sky. It is just them, two battered, beaten knights who hold on to each other, the way they have always done, even when the curse kept them apart, but not in the mind, not in the heart, because that is to where even that curse could never reach.

It was the one flame that could withstand even the wildfire of a Queen.

For a moment, Brienne closes her eyes to feel the kiss of sunlight on her skin breaking through the open gates. Jaime watches, well aware how much it just mean to her to finally feel the beams of sunlight against her skin, to feel the heat, and it makes him all the more aware that he is already looking forward to the moon in the sky, to see her big blue eyes in its shine.

“What exactly did you do?” Jaime wants to know as they keep walking forward on the platform.

“I may or may not have… accidentally started a revolution,” the younger brother answers.

“A revolution?” Jaime repeats. “How do you start one _accidentally_? Or at all?”

“Well, I will admit that I had some… unexpected help,” Tyrion snickers as they keep walking.

At first, he truly thought he had lost his mind when he climbed on top of a barrel and started to shout out the accusations held against the Queen in the parchment he took from the Sparrows. The crowd was irritated at the fact that they saw a dwarf some found familiar climb up for all to see and then even dared to raise his voice to ring over their heads. And at first, Tyrion was quite afraid that they would take him off the barrel any second and trample him to _bowl o’ brown_. However, he did not stop, and carried on speaking, carried on shouting the truths that were forced into silence for so very long. And when they heard those bitter, sweet accusations against the Queen they all detested, they were all ears, no matter the messenger presenting them. However, Tyrion did not stop there, because he went on to recount the sins not written on the parchment, of a religious fanatic who threw one of their own, a tavern wench who brought their children home when they got lost and helped old women carry baskets back and forth when they were too heavy for them without lament, without demanding a thank you, into the abyss of sin he could not find her guilty of by the laws of the Gods or men alike.

Yet, voices became louder that he just meant to save his own skin, just spoke on his brother’s behalf, that he may have been instructed by the Queen to sway them against the High Sparrow instead. And for a moment there, Tyrion feared that he had failed Jaime and Brienne a second time, but that was when an old lady waddled up the stage, or rather, a set of wooden boxes, holding on to a man about Jaime’s age to tell how she just got her son out of prison after no one other than the Kingslayer paid the debt for her. And that even though he only ever visited a brothel. And before Tyrion knew what was happening, the people kept shouting the crimes committed against them by _both_ the Crown and the Faith, they spoke their own truths until they were a chorus, a kind of power ringing louder than the bells of the Great Sept of Baelor so that even the few septas and Sparrows who dared to come to the gathering beside the one he knocked out for good were fast to retreat when an entire crowd set into motion, against them and what they stand for.

“We are no sinners!” they kept chanting once the woman rallied for their voices and gave them for Tyrion to direct, to make them move in one direction.

Forward.

It was a message that caught flame far too soon for Tyrion to put out, and before he knew what was going on, they were marching, moving forward, and he realized that there was no need to douse this flame, because it was a beacon carrying hope instead of a power to destroy an entire city.

And no sparrow could intercept.

And no city watch could hold them back.

And they were already too many for any black cell to hold.

Because they finally took the power they always possessed and wielded it.

“It is true that sometimes even the smallest can change the world’s course. Now come. Come and see!” Tyrion tells them, urging the two to step forward.

They reach the front of the upper platform of the staircase of the Great Sept of Baelor to see a huge group of people having gathered at the foot of the stairs, mostly the poor, though also some people of the higher classes, all standing together, so that no City Watch, no Meryn Trant, no Faith Militant can hold them down anymore.

“I bring to you the only living descendent of Ser Duncan the Tall! The daughter of Lord Selwyn Tarth, the Evenstar! Born a noble lady, and yet, one of your own! For she lived amongst you, only a stone’s throw away from here, down Flea Bottom! Brienne of Tarth!” Tyrion shouts, raising his small arms high into the air as though he just announced the Queen’s own arrival.

Brienne can only ever stare when people raise their arms and shout “Dunk” over and over, the way they did when they thought they saw his ghost flit up the stairs, until that name soon ebbs into “Brienne.” It is a wave that keeps rising and rising until there is no doubt in her mind anymore that it is her name they are shouting. That it is her to whom they are looking up to. That there is no one shouting Brienne the Beauty in mockery. That no one accuses her of being a witch, a beast. They see a knight, a woman dressed in mail, and yet they cheer, and yet they keep calling her name.

Her entire body is shaking, though she finds reassurance when her fingers curl around Jaime’s, to hold him by her side, to assure her that this is real, that they are real, that this is no longer a dream, but reality.

_That this is not the end, but only just the beginning._

The beginning of something greater than themselves.

“It’s alright,” Jaime assures her.

“Is it?” Brienne whispers, her eyes wide, her heart beating about as fast as it did when she felt his lips against hers.

“Well, we didn’t get lynched yet, so I would think they are not against us anymore,” Jaime comments, looking down, swallowing thickly as well, though he tries his best to keep up the charade of a surety he feels for her sake but not so much himself. Yet, even that uncertainty fades when his eyes fall back on the men of the Queensguard who could now move against them, but do not, instead, they gesture at him to have Jaime assured that they are standing with him, that those are truly his brothers, even though he was long since stripped of his title and marked a criminal alongside being a Kingslayer.

“So do I call you my Queen from now on?” Jaime jokes.

Though he wouldn’t mind, so long it means that he can call her his at last.

“Don’t make yourself ridiculous,” Brienne huffs.

“Oh, I wouldn’t find that ridiculous at all,” Tyrion argues. “You _are_ aware that if Cersei is taken prisoner, which I tend to think is bound to happen, and the other pillar… is seemingly collapsing in the wake of another revolution… you have just now taken the Iron Throne by conquest, the same way Robert Baratheon did before. And that means… by rights, you may try to claim the Throne as yours and thus become Queen.”

“But I didn’t… we didn’t…,” Brienne argues, shaking her head.

That cannot be, can it?

She is some ugly woman who never looked good in dresses, who disappointed as a nobly born daughter to a lord of the Stormlands, who rolled barrels of ale down the streets of Flea Bottom, lived in a room the size of three beds and a fireplace. She is a woman who was mocked for all her life, who broke conventions by taking parts in melees. She is only just a woman who loved a man and did not dare to say it until it fell from her lips by accident. She is a woman who was accused of being a witch, beaten down and shamed, thrown out, spit out, and now stands before the people of King’s Landing, bleeding, bruised, in armor not in dress.

It is a thing of impossibility.

It is a folly.

_And yet, they keep shouting my name._

“Fret not. This is all until the matters are handled and we can talk to the high Lords and Ladies to find a solution with regards to a suddenly vacant Iron Throne,” Tyrion is quick to assure the woman who stands as tall as a giantess, yet seems like a small girl standing before a crowd for the very first time, not yet sure how comes they love her, because she felt unlovable for so very long. “For now, it is for the best of the realm if we ensure that all stay calm. We wouldn’t want to have the revolution ebb into another fight, would we?”

“No,” Brienne argues, her entire body numb. “But we didn’t ever mean for that. I did not ever…”

“I am afraid that this is not up to you to choose, Brienne. That is the one part of your destiny that may not be up to your choice right now,” Tyrion laughs. “It is up to the people at this point of time. And I hear them shouting what they want, whom they want.”

“Oh yes, I can hear them loud and clear!” Arya laughs, feeling no sense of grief all of a sudden, just happiness, because this is more than she ever could have wanted for her friends, this is more than she ever could have wanted for herself. She is standing there with them, as herself, and as herself, she helped to bring the truth to light, to bring herself and the others back into the light. And now they all bathe in the sunlight of a new day, whilst a Queen and a Sparrow remain hidden in the shadows of the false idols of their own making.

While Arya does not believe in the Seven, the young girl reckons that on this matter, they proved to be just at last.

“And it is you, Brienne,” Jaime agrees with a smile, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

Because this is the right choice, he knows it in his heart.

Because it is the same choice he made.

And would make any other day.

Written on a slip of parchment.

A testament to the future yet to come.

A future they chose in that they chose each other even in the darkest hour.

And can now again in the brightest light of day.

Eight words, containing their little and now suddenly very big world.

_I am yours. I will always be yours._


	13. Epilog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle is over, but there are still some challenges ahead for the group surrounding Jaime and Brienne.
> 
> And that includes having to face some shadows from the past as well as uncertain futures lying outside the city gates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thanks so much for sticking with me till the end of this story. I am terrible at finishing stories, and this update has been... one pain in the butt to write. But yeah, that's what happens when life gets in-between the writing and then the writer's block makes itself comfortable in your own home with no intention of leaving just yet.
> 
> Anyway, enough of the lamentation. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I did writing it. I am forever thankful for the many lovely comments and kudos you left me that kept me going even when I felt a wee bit like giving up and throwing my computer against the wall. 
> 
> I am sending you all my love! ♥♥♥
> 
> Please enjoy!

“No crown?”

Brienne turns her head when she closes the door behind her to look upon the woman who meant so much harm to the people she loves, the people she yet has to get to know, and herself. Standing by the window, bathed in the light of yet another new day the former Queen meant to never gaze upon, Cersei Lannister seems far less threatening than she was in Brienne’s nightmares, clad in shadows and malice alone.

Because, she, too, in the end, is merely human, just like Brienne is just human, no monster, no beast – and that despite the fact that she lived as one for quite some time, even before she was cast into the body of a bird. After all, it took Brienne a long time to realize that she never was monster, a truth the young woman only ever heard ring true when she ran into a man at a melee, not yet knowing just how much that would bring her world to tremble, not yet knowing how much truth laid in those simple acts of seeing her as herself.

And loving her as who she is.

“I am not the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, so there is no need for a crown,” Brienne answers at last as she draws closer, her fingers curling and uncurling, which has the younger woman wince when she makes a wrong movement. She still has her injured arm in a sling, even though Brienne feels very much like throwing the wretched thing away. A bird with broken wings will still try to flit away first chance it gets, she should know.

 _Though Jaime wouldn’t have it_ , Brienne thinks to herself, the faintest of smiles fading across her face as ease starts to spread throughout her body again. The way it always does when he travels through her mind.

“According to the people shouting down below whenever they so much as catch a glimpse of you… you _are_ Queen, or will be soon enough,” Cersei sighs, not bothering to turn to Brienne as she looks down on the people roaming the streets of King’s Landing. “All that’s missing is a coronation to put the golden ring atop of the mop of straw-like hair you call your own.”

“But it is not the people of King’s Landing alone who get to decide on the matter. We will be waiting for the lords and ladies from the Seven Kingdoms to come and talk to us about how to handle the… new situation,” Brienne argues, sucking in a deep breath. There is still no comfort in speaking to Cersei, how could there be after all that happened? Though it is during those moments that she sees just how different they are. Every time Cersei asks about the crown and every time Brienne denies wearing it. It’s always the same game, the same dance, the same old song.

Because that crown is all that seems to matter to Cersei whereas Brienne would have no trouble having it made into a dagger to put the crown to better use.

Brienne seeks no throne, she wants no crown. She never did. And that even though that was what seemingly drove Cersei all along, was the one thing that kept her going when all people she cared for, _if she ever did_ , were gone, banished, or believed to be either dead or live on half a life stuck in a wolf’s skin.

The young woman knows that some many people fancy the power such a ring of precious metal upon the head can emit, but she always saw it as something that can make people easily sick. Because whenever she sees Cersei like that, standing by the window with an empty gaze, asking about the crown over and over, Brienne feels reminded that the crown comes with a heavy weight, no matter how light the metal.

Cersei seemingly had nothing beside that crown, and now that it is gone, can no longer feel its familiar head wearing heavy on her head, she seems hollowed out, all purpose flown out of her in the bursts of fury when Cersei was brought to this chamber after the happenings in the Great Sept of Baelor.

Jaime told Brienne later that he felt shivers down his spine when they brought her away because, for a moment in time, he thought he saw and heard Aerys ringing in his sister’s voice, shrieking to burn them all, to get revenge, to cleanse them all with fire, even if that meant nothing but a throne of ashes to remain.

“Obviously I knew that she had gone to places past light, past forgiveness, but… until that moment, I didn’t know just how similar the roar of a desperate lioness can be to that of an even more desperate dragon,” he told her with a single tear not daring to fall glistening in his right eye. And while Brienne would never know Aerys the way Jaime does, she believed him instantly and just held him close.

Because now they can.

Because no sun, no moon, no curse can keep them apart anymore.

“I am sure my wicked little brother is living _quite_ the life now, handling all those royal affairs for you. He probably already fancies himself being the next Lord Hand,” Cersei scoffs, her eyes narrowing at the mere thought of the brother she seemingly cannot help but hate. “He must feel so important now, so wanted, needed. Finally a dwarf who can go down in history as a hero, isn’t it? If only just to show me how he is not a little monster.”

The older woman’s eyes wander back to the window, her voice holding no strength, like a lion’s jaws without the fangs. It is a whisper, Cersei Lannister is a whisper, an echo of a woman who saw herself as the only one who mattered, whose world only ever ran circles around herself. Cersei is an echo of her voice now. And her voice is just a whisper, a faint sigh of dismissal, tainted with bitter amusement over how the fates played her, at least in her mind.

Because no one played her other than herself, her own ambition.

Brienne never wanted any part in the Game of Thrones, she never wanted that bloody throne, never wanted much of anything beside a life that is hers, and that has Tyrion and Jaime as a part of it, but even that Cersei could not give her.

“I am glad that he is aiding us… well, _me_ , for that matter. I wouldn’t know what to do without Tyrion because, frankly, I never saw myself in the role I am to play now, at least for a time,” Brienne argues, though she knows it is a lost cause to convince her of Tyrion’s worth. To Cersei, he will forever be a monster. Brienne will forever be a monster. And so will be Jaime, in all likability.

Anyone who has the chance to take something from her that she holds dear is an enemy, and enemies are all dark monsters inside that woman’s mind, for all it seems.

But they are human, just like she is human – a truth Cersei seemingly cannot help but refuse because it would bring her out of her own world, and she seems keen on staying there till last.

Cersei turns around slightly on the back of her heel, though she remains by the window to look down, the only way she can still do that, for all it seems. “So is it that Tyrion advised you to come see me or what drives you to the tower again and again? I always wonder what must possess you to follow through with such folly, though perhaps that is my little brother’s way of getting back at me for all I did.”

“I come here on my own,” Brienne answers resolutely.

A part of her wanted to keep away from that chamber without a doubt, but another part kept Brienne moving forward, toward that door, over and over again, even when she felt like turning around and never coming back. Because Brienne wants to learn the reasons, even if that means facing the woman who seemed so monstrous and unbeatable inside her mind for an unbearably long time, even though Brienne always knew that she could best that woman in battle – because Cersei chose the battleground, not her, and on that battleground, no swords were allowed.

_But that is over now. It’s all over. It’s done. The sun shines on us together. And so does the moon._

“And I yet have to figure out why,” Cersei tells her, leaning her head to the side. “You won, you cast me down, took my crown, my throne. And yet, I am in the Red Keep, locked into that chamber, _alright_ , but no black cell, no public shaming for my wrongs… no walk of shame… I am well fed and clothed – and you come by even though you could have yourself paraded down the streets for your blazing victory against me. Is that _truly_ the justice you would mean to give to me after _all_ that I did to you? Do you find it just to treat me _that_ well after what I did? Not just to you but so many others as well?”

Cersei narrows her eyes at the young woman, her voice, herself, again, is a taunt.

Brienne hesitates for a moment, but then draws in a breath, then another, and another. It is the same game, the same dance, the same old songs.

 _It’s over. It’s done_ , Brienne reminds herself anew.

Her darkest hours are now part of the past.

They turn to echoes fading out to nothingness.

Brienne can now see the light of day shining through the window, she can wake up to the sunlight tickling her nose, can wake up to the comfort of another day beginning where Jaime is right next to her, holding her close for all this time they were forced apart while bound together, even as wolf and hawk.

Cersei won’t ever succeed in taking it away from her again, won’t ever take Tyrion and Jaime away from her a second time. Brienne will see to that, because like her sword is named, she strives to be an oathkeeper.

“I told you back in the sept already, and I still mean it now: I will not grant you the victory of choosing your own ending, Cersei. That is the right you have foregone because of what you did, not just to us but everyone around us,” Brienne explains.

The older woman laughs drily at her, not meaning it at all, the way she never seems to mean it. “How poetic.”

“… And anyway… It is no secret that you would not last in the black cells for longer than a few days, had we put you there,” Brienne adds with a tight grimace. “While those imprisoned based on accusations of the Faith Militant were released by now, there are still some whom we still have to decide on and see whether they are in the black cells for a reason other than your unjust doing or because of the unjustness of their own. And of the former… I can’t imagine that they will let the Queen who cost them all so much survive for long. When I was forced down there by you and your men… I didn’t do them any harm and most still they threatened to take my life, if we had ever been forced to share a cellar.”

Those are the dark memories Brienne still tries to put away, the sinister recollections of the time in the black cells after Cersei wrongly accused her of those crimes to see her gone, broken. Though they, too, are meant to become echoes of the past soon enough, Brienne will see to that, too. Until then, the young woman does her best not to let them ring too loud inside her head, her heart, at least during the day. Because the days belong to life, to sword fighting, to walking through the streets of King’s Landing with her own two feet, down Flea Bottom whence she came, it belongs to seeing her septa’s grave with Jaime by her side not only lit by moonlight but also the life of a new day, another tomorrow.

_But if the echoes come back to me by night, there now is someone to hold me and tell me that it’s alright to cry because it happened. And that makes the shadows retreat a little more each time._

“You – scared for my life to be taken by some thieves who want revenge from me? That almost has me think that you care for me, when clearly, you do not, and even more evidently, should not,” Cersei points out to her in a scowl. “Not after what happened, _right_?”

“I care to keep my promise, and that is part of it. That has nothing to do with you or me wanting better for you than I would for any other thief your like. I told you, and I will keep telling you until you understand: You will bear witness. You will witness the lives you wanted to end but did not, witness the city getting back to its feet, the same city you wanted to see burn to ash for no more than your own pride and ambition. You don’t get to choose your ending, it’s just that simple,” Brienne answers. “ _That_ is your punishment, because anything else would be your victory. And I will not grant it.”

_She loses._

_She lost._

_We won._

_And we keep on winning._

_Because we dare to live._

A woman so desperate for her own end that she keeps taunting the prison guard wants nothing but that outcome, and the younger woman won’t grant Cersei the satisfaction of making Brienne her personal monster after all. She may be ugly, mannish, freakish tall, she may have been a woman cast into a beast’s form, but Brienne is no monster. There was only one monster all along, beautiful as the light of day, and she wore a crown upon her head she never had any right to and lied, betrayed, hurt, and murdered for no one other than herself.

And even that monster, without claws, without teeth, is, too, just human, because even the supposed monsters are, in the end, no more than the revelation of the darkest sides in the human condition, all malice, pride, and the terror they try to see come loose exposed to the light of day.

Cersei Lannister is no monster, as much as she fancies herself to be that great beast, the great threat no one dared to attack. She is just a whisper, a faint echo of the monster Brienne saw in her dreams whenever she called her smirk to mind, mocking her in her darkest hours, making her wish for an end she gladly did not choose.

Because the light returned and all darkness remained with the woman who so desperately sowed it with every of her actions.

“I didn’t get my ending anyway. Or else I would still have my throne and crown, my my Lord Hand and my Lord Commander,” Cersei huffs, folding her hands in her lap as she starts walking over to the small table set close by the window. “He was so perfect, my Ser Gregor. He was supposed to be my strong arm, you know? Because Jaime refused, even though he promised me once…”

Her gaze goes away from Brienne again, over to the window, to the people she can look down upon, into the world where she feels most comfort – the one that only ever contains herself and the world revolving around her.

“ _Perfect_?” Brienne repeats, trying hard to hold back the scowl. The mere thought of the terrifying man makes her shudder and makes her arm feel phantom pains from where he kept pushing down on her to crash her to pieces.

“He would have done all that I could have asked of him, I am sure. He was marvelous. So strong. So devoted to the cause, to me, no one else but me…,” Cersei recounts, a small smile forms on her face, which Brienne thinks is genuine. The older woman bites her lower lip at the memory, chews on it, tries to taste it, a strange kind of satisfaction flashing across her features when she seemingly does.  

“He had no free will,” Brienne argues. They only later learned about how Cersei had a man who should have been dead given over to Qyburn for his sick experiments to create the soldier she could not find in Jaime. Because he dared to disobey, dared to have a world not hers, a world not revolving around Cersei Lannister alone. And to this day, it brings shivers down Brienne’s spine to think that the older woman went such lengths for the mindless replacement of her brother who would no longer do her bidding.

_And all just for a ring of cold, for a chair made of molten swords._

“What did he need a free will for? He had me, no? And to him, that would have been enough, absolutely enough,” Cersei answers, only to look at Brienne grimly. “But _of cour_ se you had to take that away from me, too. How else could it be? Even that bit of happiness you could not grant me. I should have known, but he was so perfect, I thought that even you could not destroy him and take him away from me. He was so strong… so strong and devoted to me. I was everything to him, _everything_ …”

She looks back to the window, trying to call what she sees as a perfect warrior back to mind, but it won’t come, it’s all muddied water, hidden behind a green mist from a fire that never caught flame.

“But he’s gone now,” Brienne tells her. “And the same is true for your former Lord Hand… at least he is gone from the city. He will have plenty to do in the septry, once the wounds are healed.”

It was yet another turn the descendant of Ser Duncan the Tall did not see coming until news reached her. Even if Cersei had somehow succeeded in having her Maester without chains sneak out to set off the wildfire hidden in the crypts underneath the Great Sept of Baelor, he wouldn’t have made it far. Qyburn’s sins caught up with him, too, when all those prostitutes the Queen had willingly given over to him for his “experiments,” had enough and gave him a taste of his own most bitter medicine while the city was caught in the uproar of a nation on the verge of collapse and rebirth.

While Brienne will admit that a few broken bones and humiliation do little to pay back for the suffering Jaime and she had to suffer thanks to the man’s support of Cersei’s vicious endeavors, it felt like a bit of justice, to know that those who were also wronged by him finally got their right.

After all, it was never just their own justice the two meant to fight for in the sept. It was the city, too, which they meant to free from the shackles Cersei put King’s Landing into when she let the Sparrows loose.

One of the first actions the three undertook was to absolve the city of its sins, which meant that the Faith Militant had to disappear from the capital, to give people a chance again to live in peace within its walls, to see that they were not just sinners who had to take every sermon as absolute truth.

Because they weren’t sinners either, just people living their lives.

Because the sinners were those who told them that they were the only ones who could bring them absolution, could bring them back into the arms of the Seven.

Because they were welcome in the arms of the Seven all along.

The High Sparrow did not even protest when Jaime, Tyrion, and she decided that they would bring them to the septry Tyrion abandoned when he joined them, far away from people they can influence and whisper lies about sin and virtue to. In fact, if Brienne is not mistaken, the High Sparrow even seemed relieved over the fashion of the punishment they chose for him and his fellows, locked away in that septry far away from influence, from power.

Brienne didn’t bother to ask the old man for his reasons, because she didn’t need to hear them. What he thought was the Seven calling was his own ambition shouting, and foolishly, he had listened until he thought his words were those of the Seven, though they never were.

If she is not mistaken, the regret was clear in his features when he went. To her it seemed as though he suddenly became a bird that fell from the sky at last, wings broken under the weight of his own guilt he could not lift off of himself, no matter his sermons, no matter his preaching of a great wave meant to wash them free of all sin. In fact, Brienne still believes she heard the High Sparrow mutter a choked-up thank you before he went on the wagon meant to take him, Lancel, and the others to the septry that once was Tyrion’s escape.

And perhaps he will find solace in the broken cups he will find there, because the High Sparrow, too, is a broken thing now. Though those cracks will be harder to mend because they were inflicted by his own actions, his own ambitions, which means that they are always on the verge of breaking open again.

They sent the Maester without chains along with the Sparrows and other militant followers of the Faith, so to have someone to tend to them and see about their health. And Brienne is _fairly_ sure that they will _not_ let Qyburn experiment on any of the brothers and sisters who were sent there to follow their leader with broken wings and spirit, so he will also have to repent by doing what he is supposed to be doing as a maester – heal.

“Do you sincerely think I care about _Qyburn_? In the end, he did not keep his oath to me, his Queen, you see? He did not give me the strong arm I asked of him, even though he promised me he would…,” Cersei scoffs, pulling Brienne out of her thoughts and memories back to the woman now sitting by the table, looking at her with this blank kind of expression that used to have Brienne tremble with cold dread, but now no more.

Because she is no monster, just human, just an echo from the past on the verge of fading in the face of the nothingness that is her cosmos now.

“I know you don’t care about Qyburn,” Brienne agrees.

No, Cersei only ever cares about herself, or perhaps she _can_ only care about herself, who knows? The only thing Brienne is certain of is that this circumstance shows how lonely Cersei’s life must have been, must be to this day, because there is no space for anyone other than herself in the orbit that is her world. Even the whole of the Seven Kingdoms was not enough to fill that gap.

And for that part and that part only, Brienne feels this pang of pity for the woman walking round and round again, like her brother did when he was a wolf, forced to pace up and down the same wall over and over again, wanting nothing but out, out, out, until he dared to leap from the tower, rather choosing death than imprisonment.

And in that, too, the two seem much unlike, because Cersei seemingly would not dare such a thing. Instead, she remains motionless, pacing circles in her own orbit, her own world, because there is nothing she could leap down for. All she has is in that chamber, and even if she were to get crown and throne, no one would call her Queen ever again.

_That spell was broken, too._

“Though maybe Qyburn could have brought him back, my Ser Gregor I mean. Did he have a look at the Lord Commander before he left by any chance?” Cersei murmurs, absorbed in her own thoughts, her own lonely world.

“No. He is gone,” Brienne repeats, the way she did some many times by now, but Cersei seemingly won’t hear it, because echoes don’t know that they are just that, they only ever hear themselves passing by.

“Pity,” Cersei sighs, but then looks back at Brienne. “Why do you come here?”

“You already asked me that.”

“And you did not answer me truthfully yet. And that even though you are supposed to be so full of virtue,” Cersei snorts. “At least that is what Jaime always admired about you oh so much. That you were always so honorable and full of virtue, all the way up to the high, high rim.”

Brienne rolls her shoulders, biting down a moan at the jolt in her arm that it causes.

“I am trying to understand,” Brienne replies eventually, surprising herself how the words come at last, when they wouldn’t travel past her lips every time she went up to this chamber before.

Cersei cranes her head at that answer, seemingly caught off-guard by it. “Understand _what_?”

“Just why you went as far as you did. Why you did what you did to us… because I just don’t understand it, I can’t, as much as I try, as much as I tried over the years… I never understood it, could not fathom it. Why did you do it? Why did you do that to Jaime and Tyrion, to me? Was it truly just for power’s sake? Just to be Queen?” Brienne asks, feeling suddenly choked-up.

Because that is what she doesn’t understand, no matter how the young woman twists and turns it inside her head, holds it against the light she now has back in her life. Brienne now finds herself in the position Cersei wanted to keep till the end of her days, and she can’t say that the crown sitting in a chamber right at this moment has such power over her that Brienne would send a loved one through such peril, would cause a woman she barely knows such pain and misery.

The one question remains: _Just why?_

“ _Just_ to be Queen?” Cersei repeats, shaking her head as though Brienne said something utterly outrageous. “There is nothing else that matters than being Queen in one’s own right. There is no higher chair, no higher position beneath the thrones of the Gods. There is nothing else that could possibly matter more, _obviously_.”

“There is to me,” Brienne argues simply.

_So much more._

If Brienne were confronted with the choice of keeping the crown or keeping Tyrion and Jaime in her life, she would not even have to think and walk past the walls of King’s Landing with either man on her side. She would never look back, not just once. One walk through King’s Landing by their side would be worth the trade of this most uncomfortable chair.

But not to Cersei, it appears.

“Which makes you quite ill-fitted for a monarch, but that is something that I am apparently no longer allowed to make decisions over,” Cersei tells her.

“Precisely. Those choices are no longer up to you,” Brienne agrees.

And that is her punishment – no longer having the choice, no longer having a say in the lives of others.

“… Did you ever have a witch foretell you your future?” Cersei suddenly asks, looking Brienne right in the eye, and for a moment, Brienne sees green fire cracking up inside those orbs to bring her to shiver.

“What? No. Why?” Brienne answers, shaking her head. She never heard Cersei ask her that before.

“To know what is yet come? To know whom you would marry? How many children you’d have?” Cersei suggests. “To fight destiny? Defeat it? Burn it to the ground before it can cast you down?”

“I fought destiny without knowing what the future would hold for me. I fared well with that so far, I reckon. Where would be the sense in knowing whether I am bound to fail or win? Then there would be no strength to my choice, no impact to my struggle to fight against these odds,” Brienne replies simply.

Strength is only earned in a fight you don’t know the outcome of. That is why training fights are different and do not decide on your goodness as a knight, because you can anticipate, but in a true fight, you don’t know what enemy may come at you. You don’t know whether the rival will be one of the living or one of those who only lived once. You don’t know whether he will crush your bones, your body, cut you in two and leave you as a bird with broken wings. You don’t know until you do it, step forward, draw your sword and rush ahead. And only such a victory will ring true, with the highest tintinnabulation of a single bell made of glass hanging in the skies.

Cersei only ever shakes her head with that smile she cannot bring herself to mean, like always. “Some boys like a challenge, and apparently, some mannish girls, too. I am of a different stuff, so I had someone foretell me my future… a true witch, Maggy was her name. Maggy the Frog. And she was right with _everything_ , even though I spent day after day making sure that none of it became true… She said that I would be Queen. Then she laughed and told me that someone would come to cast me down, take all that I hold dear. And she witch kept laughing and laughing and laughing. And as we both will recall, you trotted your way into the Great Sept of Baelor to do _just_ that. Damn that bitch for being right all way through.”

The older woman narrows her eyes, looking at the ground, rubbing her fingers against one another absently.

“… Because a witch told you that someone would cast you down… you treated us the way you did,” Brienne repeats, still trying to let that sink in, seep into her skin, her mind. For days and weeks, the woman only ever smirked at her in that certain way and then let Brienne know that she was done talking, but today, Cersei lets her in on what drove Brienne to that chamber even though it gave her such pains to open that door and step inside each time.  

And _that_ is the answer to that most pressing question?

That is the motivation, the true reason?

Some misfortune foretold?

For _that_ , Jaime and she had to suffer so much?

_This is it?_

“You stupid thing could never understand – because you do not believe in that kind of stuff, do you? But imagine for only just a second… after all, _you_ said you wanted to understand… what it’s like to go through your life and at every turn hear an old witch cackling at you that she told you all along. That one day, all that you hold dear… will no longer be yours. That someone will take it from you, every single shred of it. Wouldn’t you do anything within your powers to protect it, to keep it? Even if that meant to burn it all down?”

Cersei’s eyes seem to catch even more flame as she turns back to Brienne, her teeth slightly gritted, her fists balling tightly.

“You enjoyed it, though,” Brienne insists. “You enjoyed my suffering. How was _that_ part of it?”

Cersei came to the black cells to taunt her, she laughed at Brienne’s dried tears which she meant to hide away from the self-proclaimed queen, mocked her broken, marred body, told Brienne how she looked forward to see her being shamed out in the streets, even though no one would “find much enjoyment watching such a shambling beast walking the streets naked.” Cersei’s laughter followed Brienne in every dark corner of her mind even as Cersei walked away and made her carve out the stone that was only ever found later on by Arya ever the harder.

“Sometimes… you develop a new appetite, after you got a first taste of it. For blood. For fire. The Targaryens even have it in their house words, you know,” Cersei says, indifference pouring out of her entire being.

“I just… I just keep asking myself what I ever did to you that had you hate me so much. What did I do to you to deserve such punishment in your eyes?” Brienne wants to know.

“You took what was mine,” Cersei answers simply.

“But the crown was dearer to you than Jaime ever was,” Brienne insists. After all, it’s not Jaime she asks for. It’s always that bloody crown.

It was never about Jaime, because his sister cast him into a tower, held him captive like a beast, cursed him, and was willing to have him die at the hands of her most precious Lord Commander.

You don’t do that to the people you care about.

You don’t do that to the people you love, those you hold most dear.

“And yet, he was supposed to be mine. He was mine until you took him away from me, too. You were a danger, even though you knew nothing about it by the time. My late husband also had the Targaryens chased out of Westeros, just to be sure that the dragon would not come back to bite off the stag’s head. With you, it was a matter of precaution, really. Before Tyrion told me that special thing about you… I would have been fine ignoring you. I will admit, I never thought my brother could possibly return your affection in _any_ way. I thought he was just being polite. I was mistaken in that assessment, fine, but once I knew… there was no way of denying it anymore. The witch was whispering to me again, late at night, in bright daylight. I heard her all the time, cackling. It was all true. It was _you_. You were the danger she told me about. And so… you had to go, or else I would have gone far sooner. For as long as it lasted, so long you were nowhere near me… I could reign as I wanted. I was safe.”

Brienne swallows as she looks at the woman caught up in her own world, the madness pooling out of the green orbs which are her eyes.

In fact, the only monster that ever seemed to play a role in Cersei Lannister’s life was Cersei Lannister all along, her fright of meeting the destiny she worked towards by pushing everyone around her away until no one else remained.

And now she only has her own shadow to keep her company.

“You could have talked to me… you could have…,” Brienne stammers, still not quite believing what she hears. “I don’t think I would have insisted on anything other than… other than staying around Jaime and Tyrion. You could have kept the crown for all I cared.”

“And you would have let me reign as I wanted? I dare to doubt that,” Cersei huffs. “Looking at your little revolution here, I don’t see how you would have sat idly by while I reigned as Queen of all.”

“I would have rebelled against you as part of the crowd that would have risen against you this way or the other,” Brienne affirms. “But I would not have sought the crown for myself, I never would have used my ancestry as a way to justify my claim to a chair I never wanted to have in the first place.”

“As far as I heard, my little brother had his hands in that revolution quite deeply,” Cersei sighs. “Because this little monster, too, is always bound to destroy my plans, my future.”

“He unleashed a wave that had long since risen. The people never loved you, the people only ever feared you. You saw to that. And I believe that this is not how you achieve much of anything as a royal, as a queen,” Brienne tells her, which only ever earns her a tired smile meaning nothing, “You know too little about politics to be certain of that.”

“Well, you failed, so I daresay we can see what I can reap from what I try to sow for as long as I am granted that responsibility,” Brienne retorts.

“Some newly found confidence, how daring of you,” Cersei laughs, though it rings hollow, just like all about her rings hollow. “Little time from now you will fancy yourself the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, I am quite sure. Everyone does. You will take a liking to the silks and the way the crown makes you look more regal, almost acceptable as a royal. And perhaps then we should speak again, to see whether you can keep telling that not just yourself but me as well – that you are different from everyone, that power means nothing to you. Because only power means power. And everyone wants it, you will, too, I am sure. It’s only a matter of time until you will be not much unlike me… except for the looks.”

“If you still believe that you can provoke me into taking a rash action against you, you are mistaken,” Brienne warns her, surprised when Cersei starts to walk towards her, hands folded in her lap, her eyes gleaming with the fire she was never granted to unleash on the city, even though she wanted it so very desperately.

“But it must drive you mad, no?” Cersei keeps taunting her as she approaches. “To know that I draw a living breath so close to you, the life you wrestled back from me. I mean, I have my little birds. Maybe one slipped away without your notice and can tell my friends about what needs to be done about that mannish woman fancying herself to be a queen now?”

“You can try all you want, Cersei – you will not get that victory from me,” Brienne retorts, standing her ground, not moving by only just an inch as the woman she only ever saw as a distant threat looming in the darkness comes closer and closer to make her lash out.

_But I am no monster. I am not her monster. I am no monster, no beast, just me._

“But you _would_ win. You would have one threat less to worry about, wouldn’t you?” Cersei argues, now flashing a smile at her as she comes to stand only one step away from the taller woman.

“And that is where you still have it all wrong: You are no threat to me, not anymore, Cersei,” Brienne tells her, making one step forward, which has Cersei, in turn, step back. “You don’t have friends who will come to your rescue. No lord, no lady will speak on your behalf. The little birds have since sung different tunes, rest assured. You saw to it, and now you have what you sowed. There is nothing other than you, in that chamber, alone. You are no threat to me, to anyone.”

No, she is no threat, as much as Cersei fancies herself to be one.

She is a fading echo of the terror she once let loose.

“I will admit that there was a time when I was scared of you, scared of your rage. I was scared, sitting in the black cell, not knowing what was happening to Jaime, to me. I was scared when they cut off my hair and told me that I would have to atone for my sins with a walk of shame. I was scared of many things, but now I am no longer. Some of the worst you could have done to me… it’s done, and yet… it’s also over. Because I am no longer a hawk. And Jaime is no longer a wolf. When the moon comes up in the night’s sky no, there is no longer a wolf howling in the distance. Because he doesn’t go away anymore. And neither do I. We stay. I am… simply not scared anymore. Because you only fear that which you know poses a threat to you, and that time is over. It’s over, Cersei. You can no longer scare me.”

The older woman smiles at her with a smile she certainly does not mean, laughs, then looks aside as she takes another step back, closer to the shadows. “… Maggy always said that someone would come who is younger and more beautiful to cast me down. And at first I was sure that it could _not_ possibly be you… I mean, _look at you_ … And yet, it _was_ you, all along it was you. You cast me down, you took it all away from me. You won. I lost. And I suppose that is the defeat I have to accept because one cannot escape the fate foretold… That old, warty bitch.”

“Maybe it wasn’t me, though,” Brienne says, not looking at Cersei as she speaks.

“You speak those words, well aware of who has a right to a crown right now and who does not, yes?” Cersei scoffs.

“It’s as you say, I am ugly as a mare. Nothing much is ever going to change about that. So perchance the prophecy never meant me, ever crossed your mind?” Brienne then says, which takes Cersei by surprise: “Who else if not you?”

Brienne presses the flat of her palm against her stomach, breathing in deeply, calming herself, easing her breath, calling to mind all the light in her life now, calling to mind all the light even her darkness cannot douse.

“Tyrion always told me that prophecies are tricky things, like donkeys, he said. Which is why it took him so long to find a solution to the curse you had Qyburn put on us. Maybe there is another meaning, maybe there comes another who will be truly more beautiful to cast you down. And who knows, maybe you will be around to witness that, too. Because if it were to go according to my wishes, you would see so much more future yet to unfold before your eyes, all that you could have had, if only you had not thrown it all away.”

The older woman looks at Brienne with a blank expression for a long moment before completely withdrawing back to the shadows where only her green eyes seem to gleam, seem to emit any kind of heat.

“Only the bloody witch would know,” Cersei says dismissively.

“But she is not here. And I would not ask her even if she were.”

“So? Is that all you wanted from me?” Cersei asks, cocking an eyebrow at Brienne.

“For today, yes.”

“So you will come again?” the older woman asks, seemingly stunned for a moment there.

“For as long as it takes,” Brienne answers, feeling lighter all of a sudden.

“To do what?”

“To see.”

“See _what_?”

“You will know once you do,” Brienne answers. “You will see once you open your eyes to it.”

With that, the younger woman motions back to the door and gets out without another word, leaving behind the echo of a woman living in the echo of her own ambition, a chamber of her own voice ringing over and over that she is queen, that she was the one wronged, a world that only contains herself.

And of that Brienne is certain – she would never want to live in such a desolate place, such a lonely world full of shadows and nothing else.

Not if there are such better alternatives.

“There you are!”

Brienne turns around to see Jaime approach with fast strides, a flash of worry flitting across his features as he comes closer.

_Such as this alternative._

“Are you alright?” Jaime asks when he reaches her. “Tyrion just told me that you went up here to see her again.”

“I am quite alright, yes,” Brienne assures him. While she still feels a bit shaken, she also feels a great weight lifted off her shoulders, as it remains in the shadows dancing about the room that is now Cersei’s.

“I told you that you can also just tell me to come along. You don’t have to do that alone, not anymore,” Jaime tells her with a grimace.

Brienne smiles at him affectionately, letting her fingers trace the scars on his hand.

The young woman knows she is no longer alone, but it still makes her heart beat so much faster to hear him say it, mean it with such intensity. Because Brienne knows Jaime means it, every single syllable.

If a curse could not part them, what possibly could?

“I don’t know what it gives you to see her anyway,” Jaime sighs, looking down the hallway leading to the room that once was his prison, too. He tried his best to keep away from that place, from Cersei in that place, because it brings it all back: the moment filled with one of the greatest grief that ever took a hold of his heart, the moment he thought Brienne was dead, was gone, though she was not.

Though for her, he’d go in there any time, if only just to let Brienne know that she is not alone, not anymore, after they were apart while together for such a long time.

“I don’t know myself past a certain point why I keep coming here,” Brienne admits. “But it makes me see some things clearer, so that is good.”

“And what does it make you see?” Jaime asks quietly. He is surprised when she smiles at him with a kind of ease he never saw on her after exiting that chamber.

“Light shining brighter than any darkness could possibly reach,” Brienne answers.

Because he is her day, he is her light in the darkness, always waiting for her, always there for her even when Brienne doesn’t know she needs him by her side.

Jaime can’t hold back a smile this time. “Just make sure you don’t give me a scare again. I would rather know where you are. We’ve had truly bad experiences when we were parted last time.”

“I am not running away, rest assured,” she tells him.

“I _know_. That doesn’t mean I like it when you are away from me, now that we are… back to who we were,” Jaime argues, gesturing down himself, then her.

Because they are human now, both of them, living in one time and are no longer bound to the change of the sun and the moon forcing them apart.

Brienne shakes her head. “I don’t think we are who we once were.”

“Well, I am certainly no wolf by night anymore,” Jaime chuckles. “As you can certainly attest.”

Gods know he is glad for it, because it is _so_ much better to sleep in a bed, curled up next to the woman Jaime can now have in his bed without anyone saying anything against it, because no one will burst into the room and take her away from him a second time. Jaime can hold her close, impossibly close, kiss her, be right there with her when the moon once took him away from her.

_And Gods will also know how much more sublime those nights are now because they are put to proper use._

“And I no bird by day. But still… I think we came a long way to reach this point, and still go on. I am… happier than I ever was, all things considered,” Brienne tells him, holding on to Jaime’s hand a little tighter. “And I am indeed no longer running away – from myself and my feelings.”

“And neither do I, nor will I ever again,” Jaime affirms, the words now coming with such ease when they used to be hidden away in carved out languages still hidden in the trees outside King’s Landing.

However, the seal was removed from both their lips, and that makes it ever the easier to say what is the plain truth after all: Jaime is done running away from those feelings, he wants to embrace them as much as he wants to keep embracing her.

“Then all is good,” Brienne says with a smile.

Jaime nods his head in agreement. “Then all is good. Oh, Tyrion also brought urgent messages when I ran into him some time ago when I was looking for you.”

“I hope no bad news just yet?” Brienne sighs with a grimace.

She would much rather linger in the bliss of their newly found life instead of having to put up with what she knows will be a tough fight, once the lords and ladies arrive in King’s Landing. Compared to that, perhaps beating Cersei’s precious Lord Commander was the easier task.

 _Perhaps we should have run away from that after all_ , she thinks to herself with amusement, because Brienne knows she couldn’t do that now, even if she wanted, because duty compels her, compels them. _Though that doesn’t mean a house in the woods, far out of anyone’s view, doesn’t sound oh too appealing every now and then._

“Not at all, not at all. It’s as you say. All is good and all is bathed in the light of day,” he assures her before pulling Brienne forward and away from the shadows of the hallway, because Jaime wants her to keep moving towards that light instead of lingering in Cersei’s shadows for too long.

Those times are meant to be over, too, after all, because they have a future now, and not just a past to look back to with longing.

“Where are we going?” she asks as she allows herself to be pulled along.

“Since you can’t yet ride a horse with that arm of yours, I thought we might take a stroll through the gardens. After all, I have some important information to share with the queen,” Jaime explains. “And I wouldn’t want to say that just anywhere. Who knows who could be listening in on us, right?”

Brienne rolls her eyes. “How often do I have to tell you that I am _not_ a queen?”

“How often do I have to tell you that you are to me?” Jaime counters, which has Brienne blink for a moment, then blush, which makes the older man snicker in sheer delight.

She will have to learn to understand just how much he means that, too.

But he will see to that.

They have the time now, after all.

“And anyway, I could ride a horse if only you’d let me,” Brienne grumbles, puckering her lips.

“You are still recovering from your wounds, wench, so you are not going near a horse unless it is in a carriage,” Jaime warns her. In fact, he would look out much more than he knows she would need it, but that’s just how it is with the people you love. You cannot help but wish to protect them at all times.

“Carriages are tedious,” Brienne huffs.

Jaime laughs out loud at that. “Spoken like a true royal.”

The young woman shrugs her broad shoulders. “What do I need a carriage for when I can ride a horse or walk on my own?”

“See, and _that_ is why the people want you as queen around here,” Jaime tells her.

Because she is one of them, fought for them when no one else would take a stance, and just like them, does not seem to know what the whole fuss about royals is all about.

“They just want someone who helped dethrone the one they had to fear,” Brienne argues, a discussion they keep having over and over without ever truly reaching a good result.

Brienne just hopes the lords and ladies will reach consensus over the matter so they can finally arrange themselves with whatever future that may mean for them. Until then, she would much rather not think about it at all.

_Because that is about as tedious as carriages are._

Jaime stops in the motion, which has Brienne bump against him, only to be caught by his lips pressing against her own. While the young woman since grew accustomed to the affectionate gesture, the underlying passion and devotion she inhales with every breath traveling from his mouth to hers, it still catches her off-guard, still manages to take her breath away.

Because this is her reality, too, not just to walk in the light of day, but also to kiss the man she fell in love with and thought she could never possibly have.

Just that now she does.

“Recall your own words: We ought to see the light, and so you must see it in yourself, Brienne. Because the people see light in you where only darkness raged before. Come what may once we meet the lords and ladies to discuss those matters, you will be their hero for as long as they live… and their children… and their children. Like your ancestor Ser Duncan the Tall, I am sure you will find your way into the songs and fairytales,” Jaime tells her when their lips part, and Brienne can instantly feel he means it as much as the previous words that made her heart quicken already.

“I don’t much care whether songs are sung in my name,” she argues anyway.

“Hm, I seem to recall a woman who once lamented to me how no one would sing songs for the likes of her, for she could never be an anointed knight.” He smirks.

“And that woman was a fool more often than not,” Brienne sighs, shaking her head.

_A fool for love._

“I quite liked that about her. That matched the folly of a man I once knew,” Jaime tells her.

_A fool for love._

“And what became of him?” Brienne asks with a smile.

“He saw the light, walked towards it, and was embraced by it. Quite a lucky man, against the odds of his many dark spots,” Jaime answers.

She beams at him. “Good for him. I do hope he will learn soon enough that he is deserving of that, too.”

“One can only hope. He is stubborn like that,” Jaime replies, still caught off-guard by how much he knows Brienne meaning it, that he is deserving, too, not just of their happiness, of her, but all that their future may come to bear.

Because she is right – there is now light in their life, and they earned to walk in its shine, no matter the dark spots in his past, no matter the shadows that will continue to loom in their lives no matter their efforts.

“And so is she.”

“Quite a pair.”

“Indeed. Bound together… and never apart again.”

Jaime smiles at her once more before cupping Brienne’s chin to bring her lips to his another time, bathing in the light shining through the large windows.

And the darkness retreats a little more, until, at last, it fades into an echo.

* * *

 

Arya blows out air through her nostrils as she approaches the walls of King’s Landing. When her strange journey began, she, too, passed through those very gates to run into a man she now considers friend, family, even.

_Who could have guessed?_

It appears that sometimes you have to walk the same path twice to find your way out of a maze of your own quarrels.

And sometimes you have to get lost to be found again.

To find yourself.

However, this time, passing the gates feels much different for Arya, because she will cross the city line not as Arry, not as Mouse the thief, but as Arya Stark of Winterfell.

Truth be told, though, a part of her still seems caught in a fast heartbeat, begging to go slower, to linger a while longer. The young girl enjoyed herself alright at the palace after Cersei and her followers got what they deserved. Arya even got some fencing lessons from Jaime, something she reckons was his way of thanking her for not giving up on him, on them, when the two felt like all was over and done.

Yet, now it is time to walk another direction, to stop walking circles through a city not her home, and curiously so, in all that time, Syrio and Braavos did not come to her mind much at all. There was only just a flash when Ser Meryn was sent to the Wall for his wrongdoings to serve one good purpose at last, but it quickly faded when she caught up with the others and just walked away, leaving the pathetic man to himself and himself only.

And perhaps that is what Syrio would have wanted of her anyway, at least Arya wants to keep believing that. She wants to think that when he kept telling her that for the path she meant to take back then she had to become no one, Syrio actually warned her. She _was_ no one, but now Arya is someone again, she is herself again, now that she walked off that path and headed another direction.

Even if, against all odds, it still leads her to familiar walls, down familiar roads.

The girl swallows thickly as the great gates come into view, forcing her to clutch Needle ever the tighter.

“Is everything alright?” she can hear Brienne ask from beside her. The dark-haired girl turns her head to glance at the woman walking next to her with a concerned look on her face.

“How could it not be?” Arya asks with a forced smile, cursing herself for failing to hide it better, though perhaps that, too, is something destiny just tries to teach her.

Because where is the sense in hiding those emotions? Where is the sense in hiding herself away when there are people who like her and want her in their lives just the way she is, as just who she is?

“For a master thief, you are really terrible at lying, little wolf,” Jaime comments, walking on the other side, the familiar taunting smirk back on his face.

“I am no longer a thief,” Arya grumbles, crossing her lean arms over her chest.

“This actually proves my brother’s point,” Tyrion comments, peeking his head out from beside Jaime, offering a small smirk.

“You two always have to team up against me, don’t you?” Arya huffs.

“We are brothers, what do you expect?” the younger brother chimes, giving Jaime a quick glance accompanied by a grin that says it all.

Because now Tyrion can say it again and mean it – and Jaime won’t tell him to stop ever again.

Because those clay cups could be mended.

Because some things have to break to grow stronger together.

“What is the matter with you, then?” Brienne asks as they come to a halt by the gates. “Did you forget anything… or did we?”

A flash of bewilderment wanders over her features as Brienne tries to think of what they may have missed, though Arya is quick to assure her, “No, no, that’s not it.”

“Out with it, little wolf, I won’t keep standing here while you berate yourself whether to let us in on those matters. And you can bet that I won’t leave your father waiting for longer than is necessary. The man will be mad at me anyway, no matter what I do,” Jaime scowls, shaking his head.

“Quite on the contrary, brother,” Tyrion interjects. “I just received a scroll this morning, thanking us all for the efforts to keep his youngest daughter safe and for sending escorts with her so they can be reunited halfway before he joins in with the rest of the lord and ladies to discuss the matters of succession to the crown.”

“He still hates me. And I hate him. I like it that way,” Jaime argues, rolling his shoulders with a snort. “Some things don’t have to change.”

“Will you quit it already?” Brienne scoffs before turning her attention back to the girl nervously fidgeting around with the handle of her sword: “Arya, if there is something we can do, this is the last opportunity before you go, remember? So you should not hold back.”

“It’s just…,” Arya mutters, eyes downcast, biting her lower lip. “What if they hate me?”

It’s a thought that kept her awake some many nights ever since they won the battle against the Mad Queen and her equally mad creations and followers, no matter how comfortable the pillows and drapes were. Arya actually came to miss the danger and action of the mission they undertook, because that put her mind off of the obvious challenge still ahead of her: having to face her family after running away to stay with Syrio instead.

“Hate you?” Brienne repeats, letting the words sink in for a moment, but then bends down to continue in a milder voice, “They are your family. How could they possibly hate you?”

“Well, those two hate Cersei,” Arya says, pointing at Jaime and Tyrion. “And she’s family, too.”

“ _Perhaps_ because she put a spell on Brienne and me, wanted my brother dead and may have tried to murder us,” Jaime scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “I genuinely think _that_ is enough to hate someone, even if it is your family. If you did that to Eddard Stark without my knowledge, I may still owe you my thanks. Oh, how much he would have liked being a wolf, truly, I am sure!”

“Jaime!” Brienne curses. “Stop it now!”

He shrugs. “Just saying.”

“I will agree with my brother that we certainly have more reason to wish to be apart from our sister than your family could possibly have for what happened between you and them,” Tyrion offers. “And I say so as someone who studied the scriptures a lot. They are all about forgiveness. That is what family does… though that is something I didn’t need the scrolls for to learn the truth of.”

He looks up to his brother once more who gives him another smile in turn.

“I ran off,” Arya insists. “I ran off and never told them why. I cursed my brother, cursed my sister and my mother when they last saw me. I had them believe that I was _dead_. They grieved me, grieved my loss as though I was gone forever, though I was right there all along. I ran off and had no intention of going back. I wanted to go to Braavos back when I crossed those gates the last time. What if they hate me for that, for causing them such harm only for what I thought was my destiny?”

Arya knows that perhaps she should have talked about that sooner, but now that she stands by the gates it comes raining down on her all over. Because it is real now. She has a new coat, new clothes, she has her things bundled up on a horse fitted to her size and the men now under Jaime’s command again will escort her up the Kingsroad to meet up with her father halfway.

This is definitive now, this is real now.

And only now does she feel the weight of that reality.

Once Arya is past the gate, there will be no going back, she will have to face her family.

And… she is scared of that.

That is real, too.

“But you return to them now. You no longer run away. That’s all that will matter in the end. Believe me,” Brienne assures her. “Once they see you… all will be forgotten.”

And she should know. When Jaime returned to her, all was forgotten, too, all disappeared, climbed high into the sky, past the clouds, to where even the hawks cannot reach.

You can run away for all your life, from your feelings, your own mistakes, but the moment you dare to stand still, wait for that someone to appear, all else will stay behind milky glass until all is said and done.

_And after that, you simply have to keep walking, moving forward._

“Listen to her,” Jaime agrees, nodding his head. “I forgot all of my hatred back in the pit, too, once I saw her again for the first time after we were cast into our animal shapes. I don’t think it’ll be any different for you and your family.”

Brienne turns her head to look at him with a small smile tugging at her lips.

Two hearts – eternally reunited.

“And anyway, you are a child. Children are fools most of their time. I think even the honorable Eddard Stark will find it in him to forgive you some childish folly,” Jaime continues, offering a smile Arya can only answer with a roll of her eyes.

But she is glad for it – because Arya knows that this is her newly found friend’s way of assuring her, and strangely so, it seems to work because her heart starts to beat slower again.

“You helped two people become human again, helped overthrow a vicious queen and a fanatic religious leader in such a little time… I think you can get your family to take you back into their arms,” Brienne agrees, offering a gentle smile. “You helped us stay together and hold on when we felt like giving up. So now we ask you to follow your own advice, alright?”

Arya nods her head slowly, a small smile creeping up her lips. Because deep down, the girl knows that the others are speaking the truth.

It’s just hard to make that first step, knowing that not just good awaits you once you take that road and walk it till the very end.

“… And if your father causes any trouble, you write to me and then I will ride up to Winterfell and tell him a few things about that. I can be holier-than-thou as well, if I have to be,” Jaime adds.

“You will _not_ beat the Lord of Winterfell around,” Brienne sighs, rolling her big blue eyes at him.

“If they declare you Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, I could certainly have Tyrion draw up a decree that would grant me that exclusive right,” Jaime ponders. “Because by rights, I’d be his King! Ha!”

“Jaime!” Brienne shouts, a blush flaming up her freckled cheeks, which has the older man’s smile only ever widen wickedly.

The two did not wait long, in fact _could_ not, to say the words, take that oath that was on the tip of their tongues for such a long time already. Once Brienne was fit enough to walk again, they simply seized the moment, or rather, Jaime did and Brienne just dared to let herself be pulled along, over to a future she always thought out of her reach until it was right within it.

At first Brienne thought Jaime was joking when he said that he would wed her instantly if only she wanted, because he was renounced from his vows as a member of the Kingsguard under Cersei, was free to choose now, after all.

“And who else would I ever choose if not you?”

Brienne kept thinking of it as a joke until Jaime took her hand into his own and looked her deep in the eye saying it all with just that one expression that words could not even begin to encompass.

She kept thinking that it must be a dream until the two stood in the Great Sept of Baelor, the place both thought not long ago to be their final battleground, their place to die together.

Brienne kept thinking of it as a dream even when Tyrion started to say the words, apologizing all the while for not having crafted a more eloquent speech, since “it was on such short notice.”

Brienne stopped thinking of it as a dream the moment the sun set over the Great Sept of Baelor and the statues of the seven lit up in the warmest of hues, only for the moon to peek through the clouds as a distant contour of the night approaching. And they were both there. No wolf. No hawk. Just them, Tyrion and Arya to bear witness, to see, see their light.

Brienne realized that it was the dream she lived when the knot was tied about their hands and Jaime draped her in a red coat bearing the lion of House Lannister.

And she forgot about all dreams and allowed herself to be lost in the reality of the moment when their lips met, now as husband and wife.

And no one objected.

No one told them no.

They only told themselves yes, yes, yes.

And that was the only yes that mattered.

And it was good. It was true.

_Real._

Now looking back on things, Brienne still considers it a fortune that she let herself be convinced by Jaime not to wait any longer, not to linger, not only for matters of the _merits_ that come with such a union, but also because they bypassed the tedious business of a grand ceremony. Brienne would rather keep out of such business altogether. And of that she is sure, had they waited, the people would have expected an invitation to a moment that was only meant for themselves.

For now, Brienne simply enjoys having the fortune she thought she would never have, to go to bed with the man she cannot help but love more than any crown could ever matter to her, more than any throne or kingdom, and wake up to his image, his warmth draped around her.

For now, she lives the life she never dared to believe to have, could not even think of because it still seems far away while incredibly close.

For now, she enjoys every moment, every kiss, now chaste or passionate, every night they now share as husband and wife. Because now it is no crime, now it is true, she is his and he is hers because they have joined and keep joining to live true to that union, true to themselves, their passion, their feelings, their love.

“I appreciate it that you would do such kingly duty only just to make sure my father doesn’t do anything, old coot, but in the end… if someone deserves such punishment – at my family’s hands – it is me. I think you are right… I have to face them… as myself. And now I can, thanks to you. But that is a path I have to take myself.”

“That’s the right spirit,” Jaime laughs.

Because he, too, learned that sometimes you have to make a leap forward to have a chance at winning again. He was prepared for a life in the misery of Brienne’s and his condition, but now he left that vicious cycle, left that circle in the grass. Now he walks around the palace not the way he used to with Brienne, but in another way, their fingers entwined, no longer having to hide, to fear. The worst that could happen is that they would not be Queen and King, though Jaime would still see that more as a fortune than anything else. After all, he never fancied that position for himself. He willingly gave it up to Robert. No one will want Cersei back on the Throne, which would certainly be the _absolute_ worst he could imagine, so all that could happen is that they would continue together, and that is all Jaime needs in his life, that is all that matters.

Brienne and Tyrion – and Arya now too, because the little wolf apparently grew on him against his best efforts not to like any Stark – are the only things he needs in his life, are the only things he can’t bear without.

Jaime now dares to have hopes for the future again. He already dared to make the leap to ask Brienne to be his wife, no matter how nervous he was until he stuttered the words, no matter how often he had practiced them in his room over and over. He dares to stand true to the promise he already made to himself long before he knew that this is what it meant, even before he wrote those few words on a scroll as his greatest secret: That he would always be by her side. That he would always be hers.

And apparently, she is always his from now on, too.

_Or rather, always was._

It’s just that it took both of them far too long to see that one simple truth. However, it is uncovered now, lies bare for them to see, and Jaime feels the relief each and every day for no longer having to hide away in the shadows.

His luck, his fortune, it is nothing he has to cloak in darkness anymore. It is something he can expose to the light of day and relish in the dim light of the moon where it is just them and them alone.

They can finally stay in the light, and stay together in its shine.

“But just so that you know, Arya, you will always find a place to stay with us, wherever you go,” Brienne assures the young girl. “There will always be a place at our hearth for you, no matter what the future will come to bear for all of us. Because we owe you so, so much… because you gave us hope again when we felt like giving and woke us from a slumber we were getting lost in for far too long.”

Brienne’s blue eyes glisten with unshed tears of a gratitude she cannot put into words, can only put into her gaze, her heart, and carry it with her till the end of her days.

“And beat some sense into this little dwarf,” Tyrion adds with a smile. “Because he, too, desperately needed that call to wake up and get moving again.”

It was a wake-up call for all of them, to stand true to themselves, their future, the chance of it, embrace it, hold on to it.

And if not for that little girl who didn’t know who she was until she, too, learned to embrace that part of herself again, they may never have made it there.

But they did.

Because they stand here now.

This is real.

“I thank you, all of you,” Arya says, coughing lightly. “I was not the only one who saved… you all helped save me, too. Because I was lost. And you… accidentally now or not… found me… and so I could find myself again.”

The three smile at her, well aware of what those words actually mean, how deep the impact of them is. Because what they all share in is that they know how desolate the world can be when all you have is longing for a place you once knew, a place you don’t know, when those you want to have close are far, far away. They all know what it’s like to be lost.

But now they also share in the secret knowledge of what it’s like to find yourself again, what it’s like to be found and woken up from a slumber most people don’t even know they fell victim to long, long time ago.

Arya smiles as she walks over to Tyrion to embrace him. “Be sure to drink a little less wine. If those two end up as King and Queen, they need you to act as their Lord Hand. The Seven Kingdoms didn’t have one in a long time.”

“I am trying, I am trying,” Tyrion assures her, petting in her back. “And you make sure that you don’t get yourself into yet another adventure we’d have to rescue you from in turn.”

“I am trying, I am trying,” Arya chuckles as she steps away to turn around to the tall woman who came to mean so much to her over this short period of time. Careful not to press herself against Brienne’s still healing arm, Arya drapes her arms around the woman’s hips and holds on tight, for a moment already thinking herself at Winterfell, in the embrace of her mother whom she said some many unkind things to, though her hugs always meant such great comfort to Arya.

Not that she would have admitted that, of course.

_Though maybe I will now… no, I certainly should._

Because some things have to be said to become real. She learned that by now.

“Thank you, for everything,” Arya mutters, her fingers curling around the fabric of Brienne’s tunic. She can feel Brienne patting her back gently. When she pulls away, Arya is not surprised to see the flash of shock still flitting across the tall woman’s features, because she still has to get used to that kind of affection, but is relieved to see a smile on Brienne’s face she no longer bothers to hide away.

At last, the brunette turns to Jaime, who is ready to shake her hand. Arya shakes her head at that. “No, no. Not like that.”

Jaime is caught off-guard when the girl makes one fast step over to him and wraps her arms around him with a kind of force coming close to a punch. It’s an odd world, really, where men turn to wolves, women to knights and hawks, and small Stark girls actually succeed winning over his heart which he thought turned far too cold for the family coming from the North whose patriarch only ever had misgiving for him in the past.

_But who knows, maybe those things are meant to change now as well?_

After a moment of gathering himself, Jaime brushes his hand over the back of the girl’s head as she holds on tight.

“And you will look out for them for me, yes?” Arya says when she pulls away slightly to meet his gaze.

“I don’t need looking after,” Brienne sighs. “Why do you all keep saying that?!”

“As Queen you will need a Queensguard, though,” Arya points out to her. “A renewed one, of course, but you know how I mean it.”

“I won’t be Queen in all likability, as I keep telling you,” Brienne sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose with her good hand. “You are all mad at times, Seven Hells.”

_Unbelievable._

“And why do _you_ keep saying that?” Jaime snorts. “I think the girl is finally speaking sense at last. Listen to that, she speaks my mind. And if we are all mad for saying it, then so is all of King’s Landing for shouting the same!”

Brienne shakes her head. “Nonsense!”

“Quite on the contrary, my dear Brienne,” Tyrion argues. “You have the people’s hearts and have better claim than anyone else of the lords and ladies currently in power. I went over this many times by now. I would be very surprised if anyone could bring better arguments than can be made in favor of your reign.”

“And I wish you would rather not say that at all,” Brienne grunts, shaking her head.

“You would make a wonderful queen,” Jaime argues with a tease, though truthfully, he means it. Jaime does not know what he as a king would do, if it were to come to that, but Brienne? She knows the lives of the poor, she knows the lives of the royals. She fought for the people, she served them without a crown already, she was their shield, their sword, their shining knight, boldly riding into battle for their freedom as much as her own. Jaime served under kings and a self-proclaimed queen already, one of which he personally unmade for his vile actions, and Brienne is made of an entirely different stuff, he can tell for sure.

Because she doesn’t seek the throne, doesn’t find it her right but only ever just her duty of protection.

_And perhaps it takes such a queen to be deserving of the title._

“Could we leave that aside at last? We are here to bid Arya farewell, not decide on what is not up to us to choose anyway,” Brienne grumbles.

“As you will, my lady,” Jaime snickers, enjoying the blush on her cheeks.

Arya chuckles to herself as she watches what she sees as the brightest future the realm could come to have. Because here stand three people who usurped a queen, ended a reign of terror, cleansed a city of religious fanatics, and all they do is bicker around as though they were like anyone else.

Because they _are_ , just that they are absolutely singular in their own ways.

Because they are them.

And no chance of a crown, no title, no curse or wicked queen managed to wrestle that away from them.

And Arya hopes that she can live up to their example now that she found herself anew.

“So you will be alright going now?” Jaime asks.

“I think so, yes,” Arya tells him. “And anyway, there is no other way but moving forward, right? What other direction is there?”

“None that I know,” the older man chuckles. Arya answers with a broad smile before walking up to her horse to saddle up swiftly. Once firmly in the saddle and the reins in her left hand, she turns the horse back around so she can look at the three once more.

“I entrust her into your care, Jaime, well, her and whatever little cubs may roam around one of these days. Be sure to let me know of any changes once they arise,” she announces with a wicked kind of smile that doesn’t go unnoticed by Brienne.

“We expect you back here for visit in the future,” Tyrion tells her.

“But only once I have been home,” Arya argues.

_Winterfell. Father, Mother, Sansa, Robb, Bran, Rickon, and Jon. And I will tell them how sorry I am and I will keep saying it until they believe me, until they forgive me._

Because she learned that so long you don’t give up, you can achieve almost anything.

It’s as they said: She fought this very battle and won alongside them, compared to that, getting forgiveness may in fact not be as hard as it may seem right now. And she won’t know unless she rides ahead as boldly as she learned it from two knights whose love overcame even the most vile of curses and bitter destinies.

With that thought in mind, she gives the horse the spurs so it may move forward, too.

The girl waves as she rides on, biting back tears as she passes the gates at last, though those are tears of joy, speaking of a deep connection that will stay with her the same way her name and family will. She is no longer no one. She is someone – and she is someone to those people she learned to care about so much in the course of the events.

Arya is determined to start writing her own story instead of chasing Syrio’s. Because she wants to believe that the adventures of Arya Stark are far from over yet, now that she stopped suffering through the small life of Arry, Mouse, all those whose stories will soon be forgotten. She wants to start a new chapter, even though this will already begin with one of the toughest challenges she is yet to face – to ask for forgiveness, to seek redemption.

However, as she watched Jaime, saw this story unfold, Arya grew certain of that one thing: There is a way to redeem yourself, there is a way to come back from the deepest depths, the darkest darkness, so long you work hard enough, without relent, without rest, with all of your heart.

So long you don’t give up.

So long you keep moving forward, again and again, until you arrive somewhere, be it a home hidden in the snow or the warm embrace of a woman you thought would never be able to hold close again after you became a wolf and she a hawk.

And once that deed is done, she will flip the page over and start filling the remaining pages of her story.

And she will sign it with her own name.

And it will contain not just her story, but also that of three people she carries with her in her book, her memories, deep inside her heart, all the way back home.

* * *

 

“There she goes,” Tyrion exhales.

“There she goes indeed,” Jaime sighs as the outline of the escort and the young girl disappear in the distance. “It almost feels like yesterday that I saved her scrawny little arse from Trant the Cunt.”

“Aw, it’s so sweet how much you came to care about a little wolf,” the younger brother teases, nudging him in the calf.

“She is alright, _for a Stark_.”

“You like her a lot,” Brienne argues, her eyes still focused on the spot where Arya’s outlines keep fading away in the light of day.

“ _Maybe_ ,” Jaime snorts.

“Just maybe?”

“ _Possibly_ … with a not too small amount of certainty… as I said, she is not bad for a Stark, and not halfway bad with that toothpick of a sword she calls her own,” Jaime says. “Though I never got the appeal of Braavosi blades.”

“He already misses her, how sweet,” Tyrion laughs.

“She was annoying me well enough, believe me,” the older man scoffs.

“You _definitely_ miss her already,” Brienne huffs, shaking her head.

“And you don’t?” he challenges her.

“I do,” Brienne admits with a faint smile. “But some birds have to fly away so they may come back. I know that much myself. She ought to be with her family now. She still has one, and that is a great fortune she should not give away a second time.”

“Agreed,” Jaime says, nodding his head, but then turns around. “Speaking of that…”

“Speaking of what?” Brienne asks, blinking at him.

“Well, the whole matters of families and all. My dearest wife, whom I know would never dare lie to me for she is so virtuous and honorable, answer me this: What did the little wolf mean when she spoke of _cubs_ , hm?”

Jaime watches with a mixture of amusement and shock as Brienne’s features grow impossibly stiff and tensed as though someone just bent her out of shape.

“Oh, that is… I told her not to say anything. She wasn’t even supposed to know. She only ever saw me right after I… and then I had to because she kept asking…”

Jaime shakes his head with a mixture of amusement and irritation. “You are not making any sense, Brienne.”

“… When I went to the healer he said that… there is a faint chance that I… but it’s nothing certain yet, after all, we have undergone such change and we don’t yet know, but…,” Brienne stammers, perfectly at a loss.

Jaime gapes at her. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It’s not yet certain, as I said, and only time will show, so I didn’t want to say anything until I could… and anyway, it’s such a turbulent time, I didn’t think this was the right moment to…,” Brienne means to argue, only to let out a squeal when she finds herself being lifted up by the thick hips and turned around in the air once. While she knows that Jaime is indeed strong enough to lift her up like that, she is still caught off guard by it, as she is with most of what is happening as of late.

Because it all seems like a fairytale.

Her fairytale.

Just that this one is real, not just words written on a page, the ink long since dried.

No illusion, no dream, no quick fantasy only ever slipping into reality over some wine, muttered under tears to a septon who would listen to her pour her heart out.

_Real, all of this is real._

“Doesn’t matter! There is a _chance_! A _chance_!” Jaime shouts, his eyes beaming up with almost childlike excitement she came to adore so very much about him.

Brienne opens her mouth to say something in reply, but that is when Jaime presses his lips to hers, unafraid of anyone seeing them, because no one cares anymore, and even if someone did, they would not.

Because this is their life, they promised it.

And both are keen on keeping their oaths.

“You know that means we may already have an heir for the throne on the way?” Jaime teases, though Brienne only ever shoves him in the shoulder lightly at that.

“That would even increase your chances of winning the Iron Throne,” Tyrion snickers.

“Oh, stop it now! I told you that we will be waiting for the lords and ladies…,” Brienne means to say, but Jaime cuts her off with another brief kiss before going on to say, “… until the lords and ladies decide. I know, I know. You keep repeating it often enough even for someone as dull as me to remember. But what does it matter? There is a _chance_ now! A future exceeding our own. I can’t believe it!”

Jaime gave up on that hope, too, because that was the destiny he chose for himself when he took on the White, but this is yet another path that opened up again unexpectedly.

And he never would have found it if not for a little wolf forcing him out into the open, forcing him back into life, thinking of a future beyond today, a tomorrow.

“Are you happy?” Jaime asks quietly then.

“I have never been happier,” Brienne admits truthfully.

Because this is more than she ever dared to want to have.

_So much more._

“ _For now_ , you meant to say,” Jaime corrects her with a grin. “Because our best times are yet to come.”

Their years in darkness are over now.

They now live their years cast in the light of the sun and the moon.

Always together, eternally one part of the other one’s heart.

And now, for all it seems, another heart as well.

She smiles at him and he smiles back. “So we may write our own story henceforth.”

“Every single page. Together. That is a promise, an oath.”

 

_The End of a New Beginning_


End file.
